UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


The   Works  of  Leonard  Merrick 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 


The  Works  qf 
LEONARD MERRICK 

CONRAD  IN  QUEST  OP  HIS  YOUTH.    With 

an  Introduction  by  SIB  J.  M.  BARBIE. 
WHEN  LOVE  FLIES  OUT  O'  THE  WINDOW. 

With  an  Introduction  by  SIB  WILLIAM  ROBERT- 
SON NlCOLL. 

THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS.    With  an  Intro- 
duction by  H.  G.  WELLS. 
THE  POSITION  OF  PEGGY  HARPER.    With 

an  Introduction  by  Sm  ABTHTJB  PINEBO. 
THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN  and 

other  Stories.     With  an  Introduction  by  W.  J. 

LOCKE. 
THE  WORLDLINGS.    With  an  Introduction  by 

NEIL  MTTNBO. 
THE  ACTOR-MANAGER.    With  an  Introduction 

by  W.  D.  HOWELLS. 
CYNTHIA.    With  an  Introduction  by  MAUBICH 

HEWLETT. 

ONE  MAN'S  VIEW.  With  an  Introduction  by 
GBANVUJLE  BARKER. 

THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  GOOD.  With  an  Intro- 
duction  by  J.  K.  PBOTHEBO. 

A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD.  With  an 
Introduction  by  A.  NEIL  LYONS. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  LYNCH.  With  an  Introduc- 
tion by  G.  K.  CHESTERTON. 

WHILE  PARIS  LAUGHED:  BEING  PRANKS  AND 
PASSIONS  OF  THE  POET  TRICOTRIN. 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

» 

By  LEONARD  MERRICK 

» 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 
GRANVILLE  BARKER 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1897, 
BY  HERBERT  S.  STONE  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1922, 
BY  E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


THIS  EDITION  IS  LIMITED  TO  1550  COPIES, 
OF    WHICH    1500    ONLY    ARE    FOR    SALE 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


INTRODUCTION 

V 

THIS  story  can  be  said  to  date,  though  quite 
in  the  sense  that  a  story  legitimately  may.  It 
is  historic,  though  that  is  not  to  say  old- 
fashioned.  If  one  searches  by  internal  evidence 
for  the  time  of  its  writing,  1889  might  be  a  safe 
guess.  It  was  about  then  that  many  Londoners 
(besides  the  American  girls  in  the  story)  were 
0  given  their  first  glimpse  of  Niagara  at  the  Pano- 
*  rama  near  Victoria  Street.  The  building  is  a 
o  motor  garage  now;  it  lies  beneath  the  cliffs  of 
Queen  Anne's  Mansions;  aeroplanes  may  re- 
discover its  queer  round  roof.  And  it  was  in  an 
ageing  past  too — for  architectural  ages  veritably 
flash  by  in  New  York — that  Broadway  could  be 
said  to  spread  into  the  "brightness  of  Union 
Square."  To-day  there  is  but  a  chaos  of  dingy 
decay  owning  to  that  name.  Soon  it  will  be 
smart  skyscrapers,  no  doubt;  when  the  tide  of 
business  has  covered  it,  as  now  the  tide  of  fashion 
leaves  it  derelict.  Duluth,  too,  with  its  "store- 
keepers spitting  on  wooden  sidewalks" !  Duluth 
foresees  a  Lake  Front  that  will  rival  Chicago. 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

But  in  such  honest  "dating,"  and  in  the  infer- 
ences we  may  draw  from  it,  lie  perhaps  some 
of  the  peculiar  merits  of  Mr.  Merrick's  method— 
his  straight  telling  of  a  tale.  And  digging  to 
the  heart  of  the  book,  the  One  Man's  View  of 
his  faithless  wife — more  importantly  too,  the 
wife's  view  of  herself — is,  in  a  sense,  an  "his- 
toric" view.  Not,  of  course,  in  its  human  essen- 
tials. Those  must  be  true  or  false  of  this  man 
and  this  woman  whenever,  however  they  lived 
and  suffered.  Such  sufferings  are  dateless.  And 
whether  they  are  truly  or  falsely  told,  let  the 
reader  judge.  No  preface-writer  need  pre- 
judge for  him.  For  in  such  things,  the  teller 
of  the  tale,  from  the  heart  of  his  subject,  speaks 
straight  to  the  heart  and  conscience  of  his  audi- 
ence, and  will  succeed  or  fail  by  no  measurable 
virtue  of  style  or  wit,  but  by  the  truth  that  is  in 
him,  by  how  much  of  it  they  are  open  to  receive. 

Look  besides  with  ever  so  slightly  an  historical 
eye  at  the  circumstances  in  which  the  lives  of 
these  two  were  set  to  grow,  and  to  flourish  or 
perish,  as  it  was  easier  or  harder  to  tend  them. 
See  the  girl  with  her  simple  passion  for  the 
theatre — so  apt  a  channel  for  her  happy  ambi- 
tion as  it  appears — and  that  baulked,  her  very 
life  baulked.  To-day,  this  war-day,  and  more 
surely  for  the  immediate  enfranchised  to-morrow 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

breaking  so  close,  the  same  girl  will  turn  her 
back  light-heartedly  on  the  glamour  of  that  little 
tinselled  world  to  many  another  prospect  of  self- 
fulfilment. 

And  the  lawyer,  lost  in  his  law.  If  a  Solicitor- 
Generalship  is  his  aim,  he  will  be  worldly-wise 
enough,  one  hopes,  to  come  home  not  too  tired  to 
make  at  least  a  passably  attractive  figure  at  his 
wife's  well-chosen  dinner-parties.  Or  is  that 
phase  of  English  government  now  also  to  pass? 
No;  for  probably  a  country  will  always  be  gov- 
erned from  its  dinner-tables,  while  its  well-being 
is  finally  determined  by  their  quality!  Mamie 
to-day,  though,  would  be  doing  more  than  give 
dinners.  It  is  a  question  if  the  Mamie  of  to- 
morrow will  have  time  to. 

And  the  literary  flaneur — the  half-hearted 
seducer  of  passionless  ladies — is  he  out  of  date? 
Mr.  Merrick  implies  the  quite  wholesome  truth 
that  he  always  was.  Through  books  and  bookish 
dreams — beautiful,  wise  dreams — lies  the  pas- 
sage to  life  of  many  boys  and  girls.  But  the 
healthiest  instincts  in  them  are  seeking  still  a  real 
world  in  which  it  will  be  both  sane  and  fine  to 
live.  Their  dreams  are  mostly  a  hard  test  of  it 
when  it  is  found ;  and,  oh,  the  pity  if  the  finding 
it  quite  breaks  their  dream! 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

In  sum,  then,  it  was  Mamie's  tragedy  to  seek 
her  realities  during  a  phase  of  art  and  letters 
which,  in  their  utter  unreality,  seemed  to  deny 
the  very  existence  of  any  real  world  at  all. 
Neither  true  art  nor  true  letters  then ;  they  were 
so  turning  from  reality  with  fear. 

Are  they  still  denying  it  to-day?  If  so  this 
story  does  not  date  at  all,  and  Mamie's  tragedy 
is  a  tragedy  of  our  time.  For  tragedy  it  is,  even 
though  in  One  Man's  View  she  finds  at  last  re- 
poseful salvation  of  a  sort.  But  our  hope  is 
better.  And  half  our  pleasure  in  the  story  and 
in  its  historical  truth  is  the  thought  that,  true 
author  as  he  is,  were  he  writing  it  to-day,  and 
of  to-day,  Mr.  Merrick  would  have  written  it 
just  so  much  differently. 

GKANVILLE  BARKER. 


CHAPTER  I 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  idea  was  so  foreign  to  his  temperament 
that  Heriot  was  reluctant  to  believe  that  he  had 
entertained  it  even  during  a  few  seconds.  He 
continued  his  way  past  the  big  pink  house  and 
the  girl  on  the  balcony,  surprised  at  the  interest 
roused  in  him  by  this  chance  discovery  of  her 
address.  Of  what  consequence  was  it  where  she 
was  staying?  He  had  noticed  her  on  the  terrace, 
by  the  band-stand  one  morning,  and  admired 
her.  In  other  words,  he  had  unconsciously  at- 
tributed to  the  possessor  of  a  delicious  com- 
plexion, and  a  pair  of  grey  eyes,  darkly  fringed, 
vague  characteristics  to  which  she  was  probably 
a  stranger.  He  had  seen  her  the  next  day  also, 
and  the  next — even  hoped  to  see  her;  speculated 
quite  idly  what  her  social  position  might  be,  and 
how  she  came  beside  the  impossible  woman  who 
accompanied  her.  All  that  was  nothing;  his  pur- 
pose in  coming  to  Eastbourne  was  to  be  trivial. 

3 


4  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

But  why  the  sense  of  gratification  with  which 
he  had  learnt  where  she  lived? 

As  to  the  idea  that  had  crossed  his  brain,  that 
was  preposterous!  Of  course,  since  -the  pink 
house  was  a  boarding  establishment,  he  might, 
if  he  would,  make  her  acquaintance  by  the  simple 
expedient  of  removing  there,  but  he  did  not  know 
how  he  could  have  meditated  such  a  step.  It 
was  a  sort  of  semi-disreputable  folly  that  a  man 
a  decade  or  so  younger  might  commit  and  de- 
scribe as  a  "lark."  No  doubt  many  men  a  decade 
or  so  younger  would  commit  it.  He  could  con- 
ceive that  a  freshly-painted  balcony,  displaying 
a  pretty  girl  for  an  hour  or  two  every  afternoon, 
might  serve  to  extend  the  clientele  of  a  boarding- 
house  enormously,  and  wondered  that  more  at- 
tention had  not  been  paid  to  such  a  form  of  ad- 
vertisement. For  himself,  however His 

hair  was  already  thinning  at  the  temples;  so- 
licitors were  deferential  to  him,  and  his  clerk 
was  taking  a  villa  in  Brixton;  for  himself,  it 
would  not  do! 

Eastbourne  was  depressing,  he  reflected,  as 
he  strolled  towards  the  dumpy  Wish  Tower. 
He  was  almost  sorry  that  he  hadn't  gone  to 
Sandhills  and  quartered  himself  on  his  brother 
for  a  week  or  two  instead.  Francis  was  always 
pleased  to  meet  him  of  recent  years,  and  no 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  5 

longer  remarked  early  in  the  conversation  that 
he  was  "overdrawn  at  Cox's."  On  the  whole, 
Francis  was  not  a  bad  fellow,  and  Sandhills  and 
pheasants  would  have  been  livelier. 

He  stifled  a  yawn,  and  observed  with  relief 
that  it  was  near  the  dinner-hour.  In  the  even- 
ing he  turned  over  the  papers  in  the  smoking- 
room.  He  perceived,  as  he  often  did  perceive 
in  the  vacations,  that  he  was  lonely.  Vacations 
were  a  mistake:  early  in  one's  career  one  could 
not  afford  them,  and  by  the  time  one  was  able 
to  afford  them,  the  taste  for  holidays  was  gone. 
This  hotel  was  dreary,  too.  The  visitors  were 
dull,  and  the  cooking  was  indifferent.  What 
could  be  more  tedious  than  the  meal  from  which 
he  had  just  risen? — the  feeble  soup,  the  flaccid 
fish,  the  uninterrupted  view  of  the  stout  lady 
with  the  aquiline  nose,  and  a  red  shawl  across 
her  shoulders.  Now  he  was  lolling  on  a  morocco 
couch,  fingering  The  Field;  two  or  three  other 
men  lay  about,  napping,  or  looking  at  The 
Graphic.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  tobacco- 
smoke,  and  a  little  whisky;  he  might  as  well 
have  stopped  in  town  and  gone  to  the  Club.  He 
wondered  what  they  did  in  Belle  Vue  Mansion 
after  dinner.  Perhaps  there  was  music,  and 
the  girl  sang?  he  could  fancy  that  she  sang  well. 
Or  they  might  have  impromptu  dances?  Per- 


6  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

sonally  he  did  not  care  for  dancing,  but  even  to 
see  others  enjoying  themselves  would  be  com- 
paratively gay.  After  all,  why  should  he  not 
remove  to  Belle  Vue  Mansion  if  he  wished  ?  He 
had  attached  a  significance  to  the  step  that  it 
did  not  possess,  making  it  appear  absurd  by  the 
very  absurdity  of  the  consideration  that  he  ac- 
corded it.  He  remembered  the  time  when  he 
would  not  have  hesitated — those  were  the  days 
when  Francis  was  always  "overdrawn  at  Cox's." 
Well,  he  had  worked  hard  since  then,  and  any- 
thing that  Francis  might  have  lent  him  had  been 
repaid,  and  he  had  gradually  acquired  soberer 
views  of  life.  Perhaps  he  might  be  said  to  have 
gone  to  an  extreme,  indeed,  and  taken  the 
pledge!  He  sometimes  felt  old,  and  he  was  still 
in  the  thirties.  Francis  was  the  younger  of  the 
two  of  late,  although  he  had  a  boy  in  the  Bri- 
gade; but  elder  sons  often  kept  young  very 
long — it  was  easy  for  them,  like  the  way  of 
righteousness  to  a  bishop.  ...  A  waiter  cast  an 
inquiring  glance  round  the  room,  and,  crossing 
to  the  sofa,  handed  him  a  card.  Heriot  read  the 
name  with  astonishment;  he  had  not  seen  the 
man  for  sixteen  years,  and  even  their  irregular 
correspondence  had  died  a  natural  death. 

"My  dear  fellow!"  he  exclaimed  in  the  hall. 
"Come  inside." 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  7 

In  the  past,  of  which  he  had  just  been  think- 
ing, he  and  Dick  Cheriton  had  been  staunch 
friends,  none  the  less  staunch  because  Cheriton 
was  some  years  his  senior.  Dick  had  a  studio 
in  Howland  Street  then,  and  was  going  to  set 
the  Academy  on  fire.  In  the  meanwhile  he 
wore  a  yellow  necktie,  and  married  madly,  and 
smoked  a  clay  pipe;  he  could  not  guarantee  that 
he  would  be  an  R.A.,  but  at  least  he  was  resolved 
that  he  would  be  a  bohemian.  He  had  some  of 
the  qualifications  for  artistic  success,  but  little 
talent.  When  he  discovered  the  fact  beyond 
the  possibility  of  mistake,  he  accepted  a  relative's 
offer  of  a  commercial  berth  in  the  United  States, 
and  had  his  hair  cut.  The  valedictory  supper 
in  the  studio,  at  which  he  had  renounced  ambi- 
tion, and  solemnly  burned  all  his  canvases  that 
the  dealers  would  not  buy,  had  been  a  very  af- 
fecting spectacle. 

"My  dear  fellow!"  cried  Heriot.  "Come  in- 
side. This  is  a  tremendous  pleasure.  When  did 
you  arrive?" 

"Came  over  in  the  Germanic,  ten  days  ago. 
It  is  you,  then;  I  saw  'George  Heriot'  in  the 
Visitors'  List,  and  strolled  round  on  the  chance. 

I  scarcely  hoped How  are  you,  old  man? 

I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you — fact!" 

"You've  been  here  ten  days?" 


8  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"Not  here,  no;  I've  only  been  in  Eastbourne 
a  few  hours." 

"You  should  have  looked  me  up  in  town." 

"I  tried.     Your  chambers  were  shut." 

"The  hall-porter  at  the  Club— 

"What  club?  You  forget  what  an  exile  I 
am!" 

"Have  a  drink?  Well,  upon  my  word,  this 
is  very  jolly!  Sit  down;  try  one  of  these." 

"Would  you  have  recognised  me?"  asked 
Cheriton,  stretching  his  legs,  and  lighting  the 
cigar. 

"You've  changed,"  admitted  Heriot;  "it's  a 
long  time.  I've  changed  too." 

They  regarded  each  other  with  a  gaze  of 
friendly  criticism.  Heriot  noted  with  some  sur- 
prise that  the  other's  appearance  savoured  little 
of  the  American  man  of  business,  or  of  the  man 
of  business  outside  America.  His  hair,  though 
less  disordered  than  it  had  been  in  the  Howland 
Street  period,  was  still  rather  longer  than  is 
customary  in  the  City.  It  was  now  grey,  and 
became  him  admirably.  He  wore  a  black  velvet 
jacket,  and  showed  a  glimpse  of  a  deep  crimson 
tie.  He  no  longer  looked  a  bohemian,  but  he  had 
acquired  the  air  of  a  celebrity. 

"Have  you  come  home  for  good,  Cheriton?" 

Cheriton  shook  his  head. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  9 

"I  guess  the  States  have  got  me  for  life,"  he 
answered;  "I'm  only  making  a  trip.  And  you? 
You're  still  at  the  Bar,  eh?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Heriot  drily;  "I'm  still  at  the 
Bar."  It  is  not  agreeable,  when  you  have  suc- 
ceeded in  a  profession,  to  be  asked  if  you  are  in 
it  still.  "I've  travelled  along  the  lines  on  which 
you  left  me — it  doesn't  make  an  exciting  nar- 
rative. Chambers,  court,  and  bed.  A  laundress 
or  two  has  died  in  the  interval.  The  thing  pays 
better  than  it  used  to  do,  naturally;  that's  all." 

"You're  doing  well?" 

"I  should  have  called  it  'doing  well'  once;  but 
we  are  all  Olivers  in  our  hearts.  To-day— 

"Mistake!"  said  the  elder  man.  "You  wanted 
the  Bar — you've  got  the  Bar;  you  ought  to  be 
satisfied.  Now  I 

"Yes?"  said  Heriot,  as  he  paused.  "How's 
the  world  used  you,  Cheriton?  By  the  way,  you 
never  answered  my  last  letter,  I  think." 

"It  was  you  who  didn't  answer  me." 

"I  fancy  not.  You  were  going  to  Chicago, 
and  I  wrote ' 

"I  wrote  after  I  arrived  in  Chicago." 

"Well,  it  must  be  five  years  ago;  we  won't 
argue.  What  did  you  do  in  Chicago,  Cheriton?" 

"No  good,  sir.  I  went  there  with  a  patent 
horse-collar.  Capital  invention — not  my  own, 


10  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

I  never  invented  anything! — but  it  didn't  catch 
on.  They  seemed  to  take  no  interest  in  horse- 
collars;  no  money  in  it,  not  a  cent!  After  the 
horse-collar  I  started  in  the  dry-goods  trade ;  but 
I  was  burned  out.  From  Chicago  I  went  to 
Duluth;  I've  an  hotel  there  to-day." 

"An  hotel?" 

"That's  so.  It  isn't  a  distinguished  career, 
running  a  little  hotel,  but  it's  fairly  easy.  Com- 
pared with  hustling  with  horse-collars  it's  lux- 
urious. Duluth  is  not  ideal,  but  what  would  you 
have!  I  make  my  way,  and  that's  all  I  ask  now. 
If  I  had  my  life  over  again — "  He  sighed.  "If 
we  could  have  our  lives  over  again,  eh,  Heriot?" 

"Humph!"  said  Heriot  doubtfully;  he  was 
wondering  if  he  could  make  any  better  use  of 
his  own — if  he  would  be  any  livelier  the  next 
time  he  was  eight-and-thirty.  "I  suppose  we  all 
blunder,  of  course." 

"You  are  a  young  man  yet;  it's  different  for 
you ;  and  you're  in  the  profession  of  your  choice ; 
it's  entirely  different.  We  don't  look  at  the 
thing  from  the  same  standpoint,  Heriot." 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  regret  giving  up 
art?" 

"Sir,"  said  Cheriton  mournfully,  "it  was  the 
error  I  shall  always  regret.  I  wouldn't  say  as 
much  to  anybody  else;  I  keep  it  here" — he 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  11 

tapped  his  velvet  jacket — "but  I  had  a  gift,  and 
I  neglected  it;  I  had  power,  and — and  I  run 
an  hotel.  When  I  reflect,  man,  there  are  hours — 
well,  it's  no  use  crying  over  spilt  milk;  but  to 
think  of  the  position  I  should  have  made,  and 
to  contrast  it  with  what  I  am,  is  bitter!"  He 
swept  back  his  wavy  hair  impatiently,  and  in 
the  momentary  pose  looked  more  like  a  celebrity 
still. 

Heriot  could  see  that  the  cherished  delusion 
gave  him  a  melancholy  pleasure,  and  was  at  a 
loss  how  to  reply.  "It  was  uphill  work,"  he 
said  at  last.  "Who  can  tell?  Luck " 

"I  was  a  lad,  an  impetuous  lad;  and  I  was 
handicapped — I  married."  The  man  with  a 
failure  to  explain  is  always  grateful  to  have 
married.  "But  I  had  the  stuff  in  me,  I  had 
the  temperament.  'Had'  it?  I  have  it  now!  I 
may  keep  an  hotel,  but  I  shall  never  be  an  hotel- 
keeper.  God  gave  me  my  soul,  sir ;  circumstances 
gave  me  an  hotel.  I  mayn't  paint  any  more, 
but  an  artist  by  nature  I  shall  always  be.  I 
don't  say  it  in  any  bragging  spirit,  Heriot;  I 
should  be  happier  if  I  didn't  feel  it.  The  com- 
monplace man  may  be  contented  in  the  common- 
place calling:  he  fills  the  role  he  was  meant  for. 
It's  the  poor  devil  like  myself,  who  knows  what 
he  might  have  been,  who  suffers." 


12  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

Heriot  didn't  pursue  the  subject;  he  puffed 
his  cigar  meditatively.  After  the  effervescence 
subsides,  such  meetings  must  always  have  a  little 
sadness;  he  looked  at  the  wrinkles  that  had 
gathered  on  his  friend's  face,  and  realised  the 
crow's-feet  on  his  own. 

"You  lost  your  wife,  you  wrote  me?"  he  re- 
marked, breaking  a  rather  lengthy  silence. 

"In  New  York,  yes — pneumonia.  You  never 
married,  eh?" 

"No.    Do  you  stay  over  here  long?" 

"A  month  or  two ;  I  can't  manage  more.  But 
I  shall  leave  my  girl  in  London.  I've  brought 
her  with  me,  and  she'll  remain." 

"Of  course,"  said  Heriot,  "you  have  a  child — 
of  course  you  have!  I  remember  a  little  thing 
tumbling  about  in  Howland  Street.  She  must 
be  a  woman,  Cheriton?" 

"Mamie  is  twenty-one.  I  want  to  see  if  I 
can  do  anything  for  her  before  I  go  back.  She 
loathes  Duluth;  and  she  has  talent.  She'll  live 
with  my  sister.  I  don't  think  you  ever  saw  my 
sister,  did  you?  She's  a  widow,  and  stagnates 
in  Wandsworth — Mamie  will  be  company  for 
her." 

"Your  daughter  paints?" 

"No,  not  paints;  she  wants  to  be  an  actress. 
I  wasn't  very  keen  on  it;  but  she's  got  the  ma- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  13 

terial  in  her,  and  I  concluded  I'd  no  right  to 
say  'no.'  Still,  she's  not  very  strong — takes 
after  her  mother,  I'm  afraid,  a  little;  I'd  rather 
she'd  had  a  gift  for  something  else." 

"Was  it  necessary  for  her  to  have  a  gift  at 
all?"  asked  Heriot,  a  shade  sarcastically. 
"Couldn't  she  stop  at  home?" 

"Well,"  said  Cheriton,  "she  tried  it,  but  it's 
a  hard  thing  for  a  girl  like  Mamie  to  content 
herself  with  the  life  in  Duluth.  There  isn't 
much  art  in  that,  Heriot;  there  isn't  much  any- 
thing. There's  the  lake,  and  Superior  Street, 
and  the  storekeepers  lounging  in  the  doorways 
and  spitting  on  the  wooden  sidewalks.  And 
there's  a  theatre  of  a  sort — which  made  her 
worse.  For  a  girl  panting  to  be  famous,  Duluth 
is  a  hell.  She's  been  breaking  her  heart  in  it 
ever  since  she  was  sixteen;  and  after  all,  it's  in 
the  blood.  It  would  have  been  odd  if  my  daugh- 
ter hadn't  had  the  artistic  temperament,  I  sup- 
pose!" 

"I  suppose  it  would,"  said  Heriot.  "Well, 
why  doesn't  she  go  on  the  stage  in  America? 
I  shouldn't  think  she'd  find  it  easy  here." 

"She  wouldn't  find  it  easy  there.  There's  no 
stock  company  in  Duluth;  only  the  travelling 
companies  come  sometimes  for  a  few  nights. 
There's  no  bigger  opportunity  for  her  on  the 


14  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

other  side  than  on  this.  Besides,  she  wants  the 
English  stage.  I  wonder  if  you  know  anybody 
who  could  give  her  any  introductions?" 

"I?    Not  a  soul!" 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that,"  said  Cheri- 
ton  blankly;  "I  was  counting  on  you  some." 

Heriot  looked  at  him. 

"You  counted  on  me?  For  Heaven's  sake, 
why?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  many  people  over  here 
to-day,  you  see;  the  fellows  I  used  to  knock 
against  have  died,  gone  to  the  Colonies — fizzled 
out.  You  were  solid ;  and  you  were  a  swell,  with 
connections  and  all  that.  I  understand  the  stage 
has  become  very  fashionable  in  London — I 
thought  you  might  meet  actor-managers  at  din- 
ners and  things.  That  was  the  idea;  I  daresay 
it  was  very  stupid,  but  I  had  it.  I  mentioned 
your  name  to  Mamie  as  soon  as  it  was  settled 
we  should  come.  However,  we'll  fix  the  matter 
somehow." 

"I'm  sorry  to  prove  a  disappointment,"  said 
Heriot.  "Tell  your  daughter  so  for  me.  I'd  do 
what  you  want  with  pleasure,  if  I  were  able. 
You  know  that,  I'm  sure?" 

"Oh,  I  know  that,"  said  Cheriton;  "it  can't 
be  helped.  Yes,  I'll  tell  her.  She  will  be  dis- 
appointed, of  course;  she  understands  how  dif- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  15 

ficult  the  thing  is  without  influence,  and  I've 
talked  about  you  a  lot." 

"Do  you  think  you  were  wise  to — to " 

"Oh,  it  was  a  mistake  as  it  turns  out!" 
"I  don't  mean  that  only.     I  mean,  do  you 
think  you  were  wise  to  encourage  her  hopes  in 
such  a  direction  at  all?     Frankly,  if  7  had  a 

daughter Forgive  me  for  speaking  plainly." 

"My  dear  fellow!  your  daughter  and  mine! 
— their  paths  would  be  as  wide  apart  as  the 
poles.  And  you  don't  know  Mamie!" 

"At  all  events  I  know  that  the  stage  is  more 
overcrowded  every  year.  Most  girls  are  stage- 
struck  at  some  time  or  other;  and  there  are  hun- 
dreds of  actresses  who  can't  earn  bread-and- 
cheese.  A  man  I  know  has  his  typewriting  done 
by  a  woman  who  used  to  be  on  the  stage.  She 
played  the  best  parts  in  the  country,  I  believe, 
and,  I  daresay,  nursed  the  expectation  of  be- 
coming a  Bernhardt.  She  gets  a  pound  a  week 
in  his  office,  he  tells  me,  and  was  thankful  to 
obtain  the  post." 

"Mamie  is  bound  to  come  to  the  front.  She's 
got  it — she's  an  artist  born.  I  tell  you,  I  should 
be  brutal  to  stand  in  the  way  of  her  career;  the 
girl  is  pining,  really  pining,  for  distinction! 
When  you've  talked  to  her  you'll  change  your 
views." 


16  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"Perhaps,"  said  Heriot,  as  the  shortest  way 
of  ending  the  discussion;  "very  likely  I'm 
wrong."  The  budding  genius  bored  him. 
"Mind  you  explain  to  the  young  lady  that  my 
inability,  and  not  my  will,  refuses,  at  any  rate." 

"That's  all  right,"  declared  Cheriton,  getting 
up.  "I  told  her  I  was  coming  round  to  see  if 
it  was  you."  He  laughed.  "I  bet  she's  picturing 
me  coming  back  with  a  bushel  of  letters  of  intro- 
duction from  you  by  now!  Well,  I  must  be 
going;  it's  getting  late." 

"You  brought  her  down  to  Eastbourne  to- 
day?" 

"Oh,  I've  been  dangling  about  town  a  little 
by  myself;  Mamie  and  my  sister  have  been  here 
a  week.  Good-night,  old  chap;  shall  I  see  you 
to-morrow?  You  might  give  us  a  look  in  if  you 
will — say  in  the  afternoon.  Belle  Vue  Mansion ; 
don't  forget!" 

"Where?"  exclaimed  Heriot,  startled  into 
interest. 

"Belle  Vue  Mansion,"  repeated  Cheriton, 
gripping  his  hand.  "You  can't  miss  it:  a  big 
pink  house  on  the  Esplanade." 


CHAPTER  II 


HERIOT  betook  himself  there  on  the  following 
day  with  a  curious  eagerness.  If  the  girl  he  had 
noticed  should  prove  to  be  Cheriton's  daughter, 
how  odd  it  would  be !  He  at  once  hoped  for  the 
coincidence,  and  found  the  possibility  a  shade 
pathetic.  It  emphasised  his  years  to  think  that 
the  ill-kept  child  of  the  dirty  studio  might  have 
become  the  girl  he  had  admired.  His  progress 
during  the  interval  appeared  momentarily  insig- 
nificant to  him;  he  felt  that  while  a  brat  became 
a  woman  he  ought  to  have  done  much  more.  He 
was  discouraged  to  reflect  that  he  had  not  taken 
silk ;  for  he  had  always  intended  to  take  silk,  and 
had  small  misgivings  that  he  would  have  cause 
to  repent  it.  His  practice  had  indicated  for  some 
time  that  he  would  not  suffer  by  the  step,  and 
yet  he  had  delayed  his  application.  His  motto 
had  been,  "Slow  and  sure,"  but  it  seemed  to  him 
suddenly  that  he  had  been  too  slow;  his  income 
as  a  junior  should  not  have  contented  him  so 
long. 

He  pulled  the  bell,  and  was  preceded  up  the 

19 


20  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

stairs  by  a  maid-servant,  who  opened  a  door, 
and  announced  him  to  the  one  occupant  of  the 
room.  Heriot  saw  that  she  was  the  girl  of  the 
balcony  and  the  terrace,  and  that  she  moved 
towards  him  smiling. 

"I  am  Mamie  Cheriton,"  she  said.  "My 
father  is  expecting  you." 

Her  intonation  was  faintly  American,  but 
her  voice  was  full  and  sweet.  He  took  her  hand 
with  pleasure,  and  a  touch  of  excitement  that 
did  not  concord  with  his  countenance,  which  was 
formal  and  impassive. 

"I  am  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Miss 
Cheriton." 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  she  said.  "He  will 
be  here  in  a  minute." 

Heriot  took  a  seat,  and  decided  that  her  eyes 
were  even  lovelier  than  he  had  known. 

"When  I  saw  you  last,  you  were  a  child,"  he 
remarked  inaccurately. 

"Yes;  it  must  have  astonished  you  meeting 
my  father  again  after  so  many  years.  It  was 
funny  your  being  here,  wasn't  it?  ...  But  per- 
haps you  often  come  to  Eastbourne?" 

'"No,"  said  Heriot,  "no,  I  don't  often  come. 
How  does  it  strike  you,  Miss  Cheriton?  I  sup- 
pose you  can  hardly  remember  England,  can 
you?" 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  21 

"Well,  I  shan't  be  sorry  to  be  settled  in  Lon- 
don; it  was  London  I  was  anxious  to  go  to,  not 
the  sea-shore.  .  .  .  Do  you  say  'sea-shore'  in 
Europe,  or  is  it  wrong?  When  I  said  'sea-shore' 
this  morning,  I  noticed  that  a  woman  stared  at 
me." 

"One  generally  says  'seaside'  over  here;  I 
don't  know  that  it's  important." 

"Well,  the  'seaside'  then.  The  seaside  was 
my  aunt's  wish.  Well—  Well,  I'm  saying 
'well'  too  often,  I  guess? — that's  American,  too! 
I've  got  to  be  quite  English — that's  my  first 
step.  But  at  least  I  don't  talk  like  Americans 
in  your  comic  papers,  do  I  ?" 

"You  talk  very  delightfully,  I  think,"  he  said, 
taken  aback. 

"I  hope  you  mean  it.  My  voice  is  most  im- 
portant, you  know.  It  would  be  very  cruel  if 
I  were  handicapped  by  having  anything  the  mat- 
ter with  my  voice.  I  shall  have  difficulties  enough 
without!" 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  "that  I'm  unfortunate. 
I  wish  I  could  have  done  something  to  further 
the  ambitions  your  father  mentioned." 

She  smiled  again,  rather  wistfully  this  time. 

"They  seem  very  absurd  to  you,  I  daresay?" 

He  murmured  deprecation:  "Why?" 

"The  stage-struck  girl  is  always  absurd." 


22  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

Recognising  his  own  phrase,  he  perceived  that 
he  had  been  too  faithfully  reported,  and  was 
embarrassed. 

"I  spoke  hastily.  In  the  abstract  the  stage- 
struck  girl  may  be  absurd,  but  so  is  a  premature 
opinion." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "But  why  'stage- 
struck'  anyhow?  it's  a  term  I  hate.  I  suppose 
you  wanted  to  be  a  barrister,  Mr.  Heriot?" 

"I  did,"  he  confessed,  "certainly.  There  are 
a  great  many,  but  I  thought  there  was  room  for 
one  more." 

"But  you  weren't  described  as  'bar-struck'?" 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  the  expression." 

"It  would  be  a  very  foolish  one?" 

"It  would  sound  so  to  me." 

"Why  'stage-struck'  then?  Is  it  any  more 
ridiculous  to  aspire  to  one  profession  than 
another?  You  don't  say  a  person  is  'paint- 
struck,'  or  'ink-struck,'  or  anything  else  '-struck' ; 
why  the  sneer  when  one  is  drawn  towards  the 
theatre?  But  perhaps  710  form  of  art  appears 
to  you  necessary?" 

"I  think  I  should  prefer  to  call  it  'desirable,' 
since  you  ask  the  question,"  he  said.  "And  'art' 
is  a  word  used  to  weight  a  great  many  trivialities 
too!  Everybody  who  writes  a  novel  is  an  artist 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  23 

in  his  own  estimation,  and  personally,  I  find  ex- 
istence quite  possible  without  novels." 

"Did  you  ever  read  Mademoiselle  de  Mau- 
pin?"  asked  Miss  Cheriton. 

"Have  you?"  he  said  quickly. 

"Oh  yes;  books  are  very  cheap  in  America. 
'I  would  rather  grow  roses  than  potatoes,'  is  one 
of  the  lines  in  the  preface.  You  would  rather 
grow  potatoes  than  roses,  eh?" 

"You  are  an  enthusiast,"  said  Heriot;  "I  see!" 
He  pitied  her  for  being  Dick  Cheriton's  daugh- 
ter. She  was  inevitable:  the  pseudo-artist's  dis- 
content with  realities — the  inherited  tendencies, 
fanned  by  thinly-veiled  approval!  He  under- 
stood. 

Cheriton  came  in  after  a  few  minutes,  fol- 
lowed by  the  aunt,  to  whom  Heriot  was  pre- 
sented. He  found  her  primitive,  and  far  less 
educated  than  her  brother.  She  was  very  happy 
to  see  dear  Dick  again,  and  she  was  sorry  that 
she  must  lose  him  again  so  soon.  Dear  Mamie, 
though,  would  be  a  consolation.  A  third-rate 
suburban  villa  was  stamped  upon  her;  he  could 
imagine  her  making  hideous  antimacassars  for 
forbidding  armchairs,  and  that  a  visit  to  an  East- 
bourne boarding-house  was  the  event  of  her  life. 
She  wore  jet  earrings,  and  stirred  her  tea  with 


24  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

vast  energy.  With  the  circulation  of  the  tea, 
strangers  drifted  into  the  room,  and  the  conver- 
sation was  continued  in  undertones. 

"Have  you  been  talking  to  Mamie  about  her 
intentions?"  Cheriton  inquired. 

"We've  been  chatting,  yes.  What  steps  do 
you  mean  to  take,  Miss  Cheriton?  What  shall 
you  do?" 

"I  propose  to  go  to  the  dramatic  agents,"  she 
said,  "and  ask  them  to  hear  me  recite." 

"Dramatic  agents  must  be  kept  fairly  busy, 
I  should  say.  What  if  they  don't  consent?" 

"I  shall  recite  to  them." 

"You  are  firm!"  he  laughed. 

"I  am  eager,  Mr.  Heriot.  I  have  longed  till 
I  am  sick  with  longing.  London  has  been  my 
aim  since  I  was  a  little  girl.  I  have  dreamt  of 
it! — I've  gone  to  sleep  hoping  that  I  might;  I 
couldn't  recall  one  of  its  streets,  but  in  dreams 
I've  reached  it  over  and  over  again.  The  way 
was  generally  across  Lincoln  Park,  in  Chicago; 
and  all  of  a  sudden  I  was  among  theatres  and 
lights,  and  it  was  London!" 

"And  you  were  an  actress.  And  the  audience 
showered  bouquets!" 

"I  always  woke  up  before  I  was  an  actress. 
But  now  I'm  here  really,  I  mean  to  try  to  wake 
London  up." 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  25 

"I  hope  you  will,"  he  said.  Her  faith  in  her- 
self was  a  little  infectious,  since  she  was  beauti- 
ful. If  she  had  been  plain,  he  would  have  con- 
sidered her  conceited. 

"Have  I  gushed?"  she  said,  colouring. 

He  was  not  sure  but  what  she  had. 

"She's  like  her  father,"  said  Cheriton  gaily; 
"get  her  on  the  subject  of  art,  and  her  tongue 
runs  away  with  her.  We're  all  children,  we 
artists — up  in  the  skies,  or  down  in  the  dumps. 
No  medium  with  us!  She  must  recite  to  you 
one  of  these  days,  Heriot;  I  want  you  to  hear 
her." 

"Will  you,  Miss  Cheriton?" 

"If  you  like,"  she  said. 

"Dear  Mamie  must  recite  to  me"  murmured 
Mrs.  Baines;  "I'm  quite  looking  forward  to  it. 
What  sort  of  pieces  do  you  say,  dear?  Nice 
pieces?" 

"She  knows  the  parts  of  Juliet,  and  Rosalind, 
and  Pauline  by  heart,"  said  Cheriton,  ignoring 
his  sister.  "I  think  you'll  say  her  Balcony  Scene 
is  almost  as  fine  a  rendering  as  you've  ever 
heard.  There's  a  delicacy,  a  spiritual " 

"Has  she  been  trained?"  asked  Heriot;  "I 
understood  she  was  quite  a  novice." 

"I've  coached  her  myself,"  replied  Cheriton 
complacently.  "I  don't  pretend  to  be  an  elocu- 


26  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

tionist,  of  course;  but  I've  been  able  to  give  her 
some  hints.  All  the  arts  are  related,  you  know, 
my  boy — it's  only  a  difference  in  the  form  of 
expression.  They're  playing  Romeo  and  Juliet 
at  the  theatre  here  to-night,  and  we're  going;  she 
never  loses  an  opportunity  for  study.  It's  been 
said  that  you  can  learn  as  much  by  watching  bad 
acting  as  good.  Will  you  come  with  us?"  he 
added,  lowering  his  voice.  "You'll  see  how  she 
warms  up  at  the  sight  of  the  footlights." 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Heriot,  "if  I  shan't  be 
in  the  way.  Suppose  we  all  dine  together  at 
the  hotel,  and  go  on  from  there?  What  do  you 
say?"  He  turned  to  the  ladies,  and  the  widow 
faltered : 

"Lor,  I'm  sure  it's  very  kind  of  you  to  invite 
me,  Mr.  Heriot.  That  would  be  gay,  wouldn't 
it!" 

She  smoothed  her  flat  hair  tremulously,  and 
left  the  decision  to  her  brother  and  her  niece. 

Heriot  took  his  leave  with  the  understanding 
that  he  was  to  expect  them,  and  sauntered  along 
the  Parade  more  cheerfully  than  was  his  wont. 
The  girl  had  not  failed  to  impress  him,  though 
he  disapproved  of  her  tendencies;  nor  did  these 
appear  quite  so  preposterous  to  him  now,  albeit 
he  thought  them  regrettable.  He  did  not  know 
whether  he  believed  in  her  or  not  yet,  but  he  was 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  27 

conscious  that  he  wished  to  do  so.  His  para- 
mount reflection  was  that  she  would  have  been 
a  wholly  charming  girl  if  she  had  had  ordinary 
advantages — a  finishing  governess,  and  a  Lon- 
don season,  and  a  touch  of  conventionality.  He 
disliked  to  use  the  word  "conventionality,"  for  it 
sounded  priggish;  but  "conventionality"  was 
what  he  meant. 

At  dinner,  however,  and  more  especially  after 
it,  he  forgot  his  objections.  In  the  theatre  he 
watched  Miss  Cheriton  more  attentively  than  the 
stage.  She  herself  sat  with  her  eyes  riveted  on 
it,  and  he  could  see  that  she  was  the  prey  to 
strong  excitement.  He  wondered  whether  this 
was  created  by  the  performance,  which  seemed 
to  him  indifferent,  or  by  the  thoughts  that  it 
awoke,  and  he  resolved  to  ask  her.  When  the 
curtain  fell,  and  they  went  out,  he  wasn't  sorry 
that  Cheriton  derided  his  suggestion  of  a  cab 
and  declared  that  the  walk  back  would  be  agree- 
able. He  kept  by  the  girl's  side,  and  the  others 
followed. 

She  did  not  speak,  and  after  a  minute  he  said : 
"Will  it  jar  upon  you  if  I  say,  'Let  us  talk'?" 
She  turned  to  him  with  a  slight  start. 
"Of  course  not!     How  can  you  think  me  so 
ridiculous?" 

"Yet  it  did!"  said  Heriot;  "I  could  see." 


28  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"I  know  exactly  how  I  appear,"  she  said  con- 
strainedly. "I  look  an  affected  idiot.  If  you 
knew  how  I  hate  to  appear  affected !  I  give  you 
my  word  I  don't  put  it  on ;  I  can't  help  it.  The 
theatre  gives  me  hot  and  cold  shivers,  and  turns 
me  inside  out.  That  isn't  prettily  expressed,  but 
it  describes  what  I  mean  as  nearly  as  possible. 
Am  I  'enthusing'  again?" 

"I  never  said  you  'enthused'  before.  You're 
not  my  idea  of — of  'the  gushing  girl'  at  all." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  I  was  very  ashamed 
when  you  had  gone  this  afternoon."  She  hesi- 
tated painfully.  "I  wish  I  could  explain  myself, 
but  I  can't — without  a  pen.  I  can  write  what  I 
feel  much  better  than  I  can  say  it.  I  began  to 
write  a  play  once,  and  the  girl  said  just  what  I 
felt.  It  was  a  bad  play,  but  a  big  relief.  I've 
sometimes  thought  that  if  I  walked  about  with 
a  pen  in  my  hand,  I  should  be  a  good  conversa- 
tionalist." 

"Try  to  tell  me  what  you  feel  without  one," 
said  Heriot. 

"You  encourage  me  to  bore  you.  Mr.  Heriot, 
I  yearn,  I  crave,  to  do  something  clever.  It 
isn't  only  vanity:  half  the  craving  is  born  of  the 
desire  to  live  among  clever  people.  Ever  since 
I  can  remember  I've  ached  to  know  artists,  and 
actors,  and  people  who  write,  and  do  things. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  29 

I've  been  cooped  among  storekeepers  without  an 
idea  in  their  heads;  I've  never  seen  a  man  or 
woman  of  talent  in  my  life,  excepting  my  father ; 
I've  never  heard  anybody  speak  who  knew  what 
art  or  ambition  meant.  You  may  laugh,  but  if 
I  had  it,  I  would  give  five  hundred  dollars  to  go 
home  with  some  of  those  actresses  to-night,  and 
sit  mum  in  a  corner  and  listen  to  them." 

"Don't  you  think  it  very  likely  you  might  be 
disappointed?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't.  I  don't  expect  they  would  talk 
blank-verse  at  supper,  but  they  would  talk  of 
their  work,  of  their  hopes.  An  artist  must  be  an 
artist  always — on  the  stage,  or  off  it;  in  his 
studio,  or  in  his  club.  My  father  is  an  instance: 
he  could  not  be  a  philistine  if  he  tried.  He  once 
said  something  I've  always  remembered;  he 
said:  'God  gave  me  my  soul,  child;  circumstances 
gave  me  an  hotel.'  I  thought  it  happily  put." 

Heriot  perceived  that  Cheriton  had  thought 
so  too,  as  the  "impromptu"  had  been  repeated. 

"What  a  different  world  we  should  have  lived 
in  by  now  if  he  had  kept  in  his  profession!"  she 
exclaimed.  "I  quiver  when  I  realise  what  I've 
missed.  People  that  I  only  know  through  their 
books,  or  the  newspapers,  would  have  been  fa- 
miliar friends.  I  should  have  seen  Swinburne 
smoking  cigars  in  our  parlour ;  and  Sarah  Bern- 


30  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

hardt  would  have  dropped  in  to  tea  and  chatted 
about  the  rehearsal  she  had  just  left,  and  showed 
me  the  patterns  of  the  new  costumes  she  was 
ordering.  Isn't  it  wonderful?" 

In  sympathy  for  her  he  said: 

"It's  possible  your  father  might  have  remained 
in  England  without  becoming  intimate  with 
celebrities." 

She  looked  doubtful.  "Even  if  he  hadn't— 
and  one  likes  to  believe  in  one's  own  father — the 
atmosphere  would  have  been  right.  They 
mightn't  have  been  Swinburnes  and  Bernhardts 
that  were  at  home  in  our  place — they  might  have 
been  people  the  world  hasn't  heard  of  yet.  But 
they  would  have  talked  of  the  time  when  the 
world  was  going  to  hear  of  them.  One  can  re- 
spect an  obscure  genius  as  much  as  a  famous 
one." 

They  had  reached  the  door  of  Belle  Vue  Man- 
sion; and  when  he  was  begged  to  go  in  for  half 
an  hour,  Heriot  did  not  demur.  They  had  the 
drawing-room  to  themselves  now,  and  Cheriton 
descanted  with  relish  on  the  qualifications  for  a 
successful  actress.  He  had  no  knowledge  of  the 
subject,  but  possessed  great  fluency,  and  he 
spoke  of  "broad  effects,"  and  "communicable 
emotion,"  and  "what  he  might  call  a  matter  of 
perspective"  with  an  authority  which  came  near 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  31 

to  disguising  the  fact  that  there  was  little  or 
no  meaning  in  what  he  said.  The  girl  sat  pale 
and  attentive,  and  Mrs.  Baines  listened  vaguely, 
as  she  might  have  done  to  a  discourse  in  Chinese. 
Relatives  who  came  back  from  America  and  in- 
vited her  to  stay  with  them  in  a  house  where  she 
cost  two  guineas  a  week,  must  be  treated  with 
deference;  but  the  stage  and  the  circus  were  of 
equal  significance  to  her  mind,  and  she  would 
have  simpered  just  as  placidly  if  her  niece  had 
been  anxious  to  jump  through  a  hoop.  Her 
chief  emotion  was  pride  at  being  in  a  room  with 
a  barrister  who,  she  had  learnt,  was  the  brother 
of  a  baronet;  and  she  watched  him  furtively, 
with  the  anticipation  of  describing  the  event  in 
Lavender  Street,  Wandsworth,  where  the  mag- 
nate was  a  gentleman  who  travelled  in  a 
brougham,  and  haberdashery. 

"Would  it  be  inconsiderate  to  ask  you  to  recite 
to-night,  Miss  Cheriton?"  inquired  Heriot. 
"Don't,  if  you  are  too  tired." 

She  rose  at  once,  as  if  compelling  herself  to 
subdue  reluctance,  and  moved  towards  the  bay 
of  the  window  slowly.  For  a  second  or  two  after 
she  stood  there  she  did  not  speak,  only  her  lips 
trembled.  Then  she  began  Portia's  speech  on 
mercy.  In  recitation  her  voice  had  the  slight 
tremolo  that  is  natural  to  many  beginners  who 


32  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

feel  deeply ;  but  its  quality  was  delicious,  and  her 
obvious  earnestness  was  not  without  effect.  Con- 
scious that  her  gestures  were  stiff,  she  had  chosen 
a  speech  that  demanded  little  action,  and  it  was 
not  until  she  came  to  "Therefore,  Jew,  though 
justice  be  thy  plea,"  that  her  hands,  which  she 
had  clasped  lightly  in  front  of  her,  fell  apart. 
With  the  change  of  position  she  seemed  to 
acquire  a  dignity  and  confidence  that  made  the 
climax  triumphant,  and  though  Heriot  could  see 
that  she  had  much  to  learn,  his  compliments  were 
sincere. 

When  he  bade  her  good-night,  she  looked  at 
him  appealingly. 

"Tell  me  the  truth,"  she  said  under  her  breath ; 
"I've  only  had  my  father's  opinion.  Tell  me  the 
truth!" 

"I  honestly  believe  you're  clever,"  he  an- 
swered. "I'm  sure  of  it."  He  felt  his  words  to 
be  very  cold  compared  with  the  sympathy  that 
was  stirring  in  him. 

The  proprietress,  who  had  entered,  hovered 
about  with  an  eye  on  the  gas,  and  he  repeated  his 
adieux  hurriedly.  The  interest  that  he  already 
took  in  the  question  of  Miss  Cheriton's  success 
surprised  him.  The  day  had  had  a  charm  that 
was  new,  and  he  found  that  he  was  eagerly  antici- 
pating the  morrow. 


CHAPTER  III 


CHAPTER  III 

Ox  the  pavements  of  the  Strand  the  snow  had 
turned  to  slush;  and  from  the  river  a  fog  was 
blowing  up,  which  got  into  the  girl's  throat,  and 
made  her  cough.  She  mounted  a  flight  of  gloomy 
stairs,  and  pulled  a  bell.  Already  her  bearing 
had  lost  something  that  had  distinguished  it  in 
the  summer:  something  of  courage.  She  rang 
the  bell  deprecatingly,  as  if  ashamed. 

The  anteroom  into  which  she  passed  had  be- 
come painfully  familiar  to  her,  like  the  faces  of 
many  of  the  occupants.  They  all  wore  the  same 
expression — an  air  of  repressed  eagerness,  of  dif- 
fidence striving  to  look  assured.  The  walls  were 
covered  with  theatrical  photographs,  and  in  a 
corner  a  pimply  youth  sat  writing  at  a  table. 
What  he  wrote  nobody  knew  or  cared.  The 
crowd  had  but  one  thought — the  door  that  com- 
municated with  the  agent's  private  office,  to 
which  they  prayed,  though  they  were  no  longer 
sanguine,  that  they  would  gain  admission.  It 
was  four  o'clock,  and  at  five  the  office  would 
close.  There  were  so  many  of  them  that  it  was 

35 


36  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

impossible  for  Mr.  Passmore  to  interview  ev- 
erybody. Which  of  them  would  be  lucky  to- 
day? 

Mamie  also  looked  towards  the  door,  and  from 
the  door  back  to  her  companions  in  distress.  A 
little  fair  woman  in  a  light  fawn  costume — ter- 
ribly unsuitable  to  the  season,  but  her  least 
shabby — met  her  eyes  and  spoke. 

"Have  you  got  an  appointment?"  she  asked 
in  a  low  voice. 

"No." 

"Oh,  then  you  won't  see  him,"  said  the  little 
woman  more  cheerfully.  "I  thought,  as  you'd 
come  in  so  late,  that  you  had  an  appointment. 
I've  been  here  since  twelve." 

The  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Passmore  appeared 
on  the  threshold.  He  did  not  say  good-afternoon 
to  his  clients;  he  cast  an  indifferent  gaze  round 
the  room,  and  signed  to  a  cadaverous  man  who 
sat  sucking  the  handle  of  his  umbrella. 

"Here!  You!"  he  said,  retiring  again.  The 
cadaverous  man  rose  hurriedly,  among  envious 
glances,  and  twenty-five  heads  that  had  been 
lifted  in  expectation  drooped  dejectedly.  The 
men  whose  watches  were  not  pawned  looked  to 
see  the  time. 

"What's  your  line?"  said  the  little  woman,  ad- 
dressing Mamie  once  more. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  37 

"I  beg  your  pardon?  Oh,  I'm  trying  for  my 
first  engagement;  I  haven't  acted  yet  at  all." 

The  other  showed  surprise  and  some  contempt. 

"A  novice,  are  you!  Good  Lord,  it's  no  good 
your  coming  to  the  agents,  my  dear;  they  can't 
find  shops  for  us." 

"I  paid  Mr.  Passmore  the  usual  fee,"  said 
Mamie;  "he  promised  he'd  do  what  he  could." 

The  little  woman  smiled,  and  turned  her 
shoulder  to  her,  declining  further  discussion. 
Another  girl  rang  the  bell,  but  withdrew  with 
a  sigh  as  she  perceived  the  futility  of  waiting. 
The  cadaverous  man  came  out,  with  an  engage- 
ment writ  large  upon  his  features.  He  stowed 
a  type-written  part  into  the  pocket  of  his  over- 
coat, and  nodded  good-bye  to  an  acquaintance, 
whose  cast  of  countenance  proclaimed  him  a  low 
comedian. 

"Got  anything,  dear  boy?"  inquired  the  latter 
in  a  husky  whisper. 

"They  want  me  for  the  White  Slaves  com- 
pany— the  Father.  Offered  four.  Of  course  I 
refused  point-blank.  'No,'  I  said,  'six.'  'Oh,'  he 
said,  'impossible!'  I  wouldn't  budge;  what  do 
you  think!  Why,  I  had  eight  with  Kavanagh, 
and  she's  as  good  as  booked  me  for  her  next  tour. 
fl  don't  mind,'  I  said;  'I'll  go  to  the  Harcourts!' 
They've  been  trying  to  get  me  back,  and  he 


,37 


38  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

knows  it.  'Don't  do  that,'  he  said;  'say  five,  my 
boy!'  'Six!'  I  said,  'and  I  only  take  it  then  to 
fill  in.'  'Well,  they  want  you,'  he  said;  'you're 
the  only  man  for  the  part,  and  I  suppose  you've 
got  to  have  your  own  terms;  but  they  wouldn't 
pay  it  to  anybody  else.' '  His  salary  was  to  be 
three-pounds-ten,  and  he  could  have  shed  tears 
of  relief  to  get  even  so  much  as  that. 

"Damn  fine,  old  chap !"  said  the  low  comedian, 
who  didn't  believe  him.  "Is  the  comedy  part 
open,  do  you  know?  I  might " 

"Don't  think  so;  fancy  they're  complete."  His 
manner  was  already  condescending.  "Olive  oil!" 

"Now,  I  can't  see  you  people  to-day!"  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Passmore,  putting  up  his  hands 
impatiently.  "No  good,  Miss  Forbes,"  as  a  girl 
made  a  dart  towards  him  with  a  nervous  smile 
that  was  meant  to  be  ingratiating;  "got  nothing 
for  you,  it's  no  use.  .  .  .  What  do  you  want, 
my  dear?" 

Another  lady,  who  found  it  embarrassing  to 
explain  her  anxiety  in  public,  faltered  "that  she 
had  just  looked  in  to  hear  if  Mr.  Passmore  could 
kindly " 

"Nothing  doing!  perhaps  later  on.  I'll  let  you 
know." 

"You  will  bear  me  in  mind,  won't  you,  Mr. 
Passmore?"  she  pleaded. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  39 

"What?"  he  said.  "Oh  yes,  yes;  I'll  drop  you 
a  postcard — I  won't  forget  you.  Good-day." 
He  did  not  even  recollect  her  name. 

"Can  I  speak  to  you,  Mr.  Passmore?"  said 
Mamie,  rising. 

"You?"  he  said  questioningly.  "Oh,  I  can't 
do  anything  for  you  yet !  Everything's  made  up 
—things  are  very  quiet  just  now.  .  .  .  Here, 
Miss  Beaumont,  I  want  a  word  with  you." 

"Give  me  a  minute,"  persisted  Mamie.  "I 
want  an  engagement;  I  don't  care  how  small 
the  part  is.  I'll  be  a  servant,  I'll  be  anything, 
I  want  a  beginning!  I  recited  to  you,  if  you 
remember,  and— 

"Did  you?"  he  said.  "Oh  yes,  yes,  I  remember 
— very  nice.  You  wanted  to  play  Juliet!"  He 
laughed. 

"I'll  be  anything!"  she  said  again.  "I'll  give 
you  double  the  commission  if— 

"Have  you  got  enough  voice  for  chorus?"  he 
asked  testily.  "How  are  your  limbs?" 

"I  want  to  be  an  actress,"  she  said,  flushing. 
"I  mean  to  work!" 

"Come  on,  Miss  Beaumont!"  he  cried.  And 
Miss  Beaumont  swept  past  her  into  the  sanctum. 

The  girl  who  six  months  ago  had  looked  for- 
ward to  playing  Juliet  made  her  way  down  the 
dingy  staircase  drearily.  This  was  but  one  of 


40  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

many  dramatic  agents  with  whom  she  had  gone 
through  the  form  of  registering  her  name.  Mr. 
Passmore's  booking-fee  had  been  five  shillings; 
the  booking-fee  of  most  of  the  others  had  been 
five  shillings ;  one  had  charged  a  guinea.  All  had 
been  affable  when  she  paid  her  first  visit,  and  for- 
gotten who  she  was  when  she  paid  her  second;  all 
had  been  reminded  who  she  was,  and  failed  to 
recognise  her  when  she  called  again.  She  called 
on  one  or  another  of  them  every  day,  and  con- 
trived to  gain  such  an  interview  as  she  had  just 
had  about  once  a  week.  She  had  taken  in  the 
theatrical  papers  and  replied  to  shoals  of  adver- 
tisements, but  as  she  had  to  state  that  she  was  a 
novice,  nobody  ever  took  any  notice  of  her  ap- 
plications. She  had  haunted  the  stage-doors 
when  she  read  that  a  new  piece  was  to  be  pro- 
duced, begging  in  vain  to  be  allowed  to  see  the 
manager.  She  had,  in  fine,  done  everything  that 
was  possible;  and  she  was  as  far  from  securing 
an  engagement  as  on  the  day  that  she  arrived  in 
England.  And  she  had  talent,  and  she  was 
beautiful,  and  was  prepared  to  begin  on  the  low- 
est rung  of  the  ladder. 

The  stage  is  generally  supposed  to  be  the 
easiest  of  all  callings  to  enter.  The  girl  who 
is  unhappy  at  home,  the  boy  who  has  been 
plucked  for  the  army,  the  woman  whose  bus- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  41 

band  has  failed  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  all  speak 
of  "going  on  the  stage"  as  calmly  as  if  it  were 
only  necessary  to  take  a  stroll  to  get  there.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  unless  an  extraordinary  piece 
of  luck  befalls  her,  it  is  almost  as  difficult  for  a 
girl  without  influence,  or  a  good  deal  of  money, 
to  become  an  actress  as  it  is  for  her  to  marry  a 
duke.  She  may  be  in  earnest,  but  there  are 
thousands  who  are  in  earnest ;  she  may  be  pretty, 
but  there  are  hundreds  of  pretty  actresses  strug- 
gling and  unrecognised;  she  may  be  a  genius, 
but  she  has  no  opportunity  to  display  her  gift 
until  the  engagement  is  obtained.  And  this  is 
the  tremendous  obstacle.  She  can  prove  nothing; 
she  can  only  say,  "I  feel  I  should  succeed."  If 
she  is  allowed  to  recite — and  it  is  very  rarely  that 
she  is — a  recital  is  little  or  no  test  of  her  quali- 
fications for  the  stage.  She  may  recite  cleverly, 
and  as  an  actress  be  very  indifferent.  She  has 
to  beg  to  be  taken  on  trust,  while  a  myriad 
women,  eager  for  the  vacant  part,  can  cry,  "I 
can  refer  you  to  so-and-so;  I  have  experience!" 
Though  other  artistic  professions  may  be  as  hard 
to  rise  in,  there  is  probably  none  other  in  which 
it  is  quite  so  difficult  to  make  the  first  steps.  If 
a  girl  is  able  to  write,  she  can  sit  alone  in  her 
bedroom,  and  demonstrate  her  capability;  if  she 
can  paint,  her  canvases  speak  for  her;  if  she 


42  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

pants  to  be  a  prima  donna,  she  can  open  her 
mouth  and  people  hear  her  sing.  The  would-be 
actress,  alone  among  artists,  can  do  nothing  to 
show  her  fitness  for  the  desired  vocation  until 
her  self -estimate  has  been  blindly  accepted — and 
she  may  easily  fail  to  do  herself  justice  then, 
cast,  as  she  will  be,  for  minor  parts  entirely  for- 
eign to  her  bent. 

To  succeed  on  the  stage  requires  indomitable 
energy,  callousness  to  rebuffs,  tact,  luck,  talent, 
and  facilities  for  living  six  or  nine  months  out 
of  the  year  without  earning  a  shilling.  To  get 
on  to  the  stage  requires  valuable  introductions 
or  considerable  means.  If  a  woman  has  neither, 
the  chances  are  in  favour  of  her  seeking  an  open- 
ing vainly  all  her  life.  And  as  to  a  young  man 
so  situated  who  seeks  it,  he  is  endeavouring  to 
pass  through  a  brick  wall. 

Mamie  descended  the  dingy  staircase,  and  at 
the  foot  she  saw  the  girl  who  had  been  addressed 
as  "Miss  Forbes."  She  was  standing  on  the 
doorstep,  gathering  up  her  skirts.  It  had  begun 
to  snow  again,  and  she  contemplated  the  dark- 
damp  street  shrinkingly.  An  impulse  seized 
Mamie  to  speak  as  she  passed.  From  such 
trifles  great  things  sometimes  followed,  she  re- 
membered. She  was  at  the  age  when  the  possi- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  43 

bility  of  the  happy  accident  recurs  to  the  mind 
constantly — a  will-o'-the-wisp  that  lightens  the 
gloom.  The  reflection  takes  marvellous  forms, 
and  at  twenty-one  the  famous  actor — of  the 
aspirant's  imagination — who  goes  about  the 
world  crying,  "A  genius!  you  must  come  to  me!" 
may  be  met  in  any  omnibus.  The  famous  actor 
of  the  aspirant's  imagination  is  like  the  editor  as 
conceived  by  the  general  public:  he  spends  his 
life  in  quest  of  obscure  ability. 

"If  we're  going  the  same  way,  I  can  offer  you 
a  share  of  my  umbrella,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  thanks!"  said  the  girl  in  a  slightly  sur- 
prised voice;  "I'm  going  to  Charing  Cross." 

"And  I'm  going  to  Victoria,  so  our  road  is  the 
same,"  said  Mamie. 

A  feeling  of  passionate  pleasure  suffused  her 
as  she  moved  away  by  the  girl's  side  through 
the  yellow  fog.  The  roar  of  the  Strand  had 
momentarily  the  music  of  her  dreams  while  she 
yearned  in  Duluth;  the  greatness  of  the  city — 
the  London  of  theatres,  art  and  books — throbbed 
in  her  veins.  She  was  walking  with  an  actress! 

"Isn't  it  beastly?"  said  the  girl.  "I  suppose 
you've  got  to  train  it?" 

"Yes;  I'm  living  at  Wandsworth.  Have  you 
far  to  go?" 


44  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"Netting  Hill.  I  take  the  bus.  Passmore 
hadn't  got  anything  for  you,  had  he?" 

Mamie  shook  her  head.  "We  were  both  un- 
lucky; but  perhaps  it  doesn't  matter  so  much 
to  you?" 

"Doesn't  it!  .  .  .  Have  you  been  on  his  books 
long,  Miss ?" 

"Miss  Cheriton — Mamie  Cheriton." 

"That's  a  good  name;  it  sounds  like  a  char- 
acter in  a  play — as  if  she'd  have  a  love-scene 
under  the  apple-blossom!  Where  were  you 
last?" 

"At  Mr.  Faulkner's;  but  he  didn't  know  of 
any  vacancy  either." 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  said  Miss  Forbes;  "I 
mean,  how  long  have  you  been  out?" 

"Oh,"  answered  Mamie,  "I  left  home  at  one 
o'clock ;  that's  the  worst  of  living  such  a  long  way 
off!" 

The  other  stared. 

"Don't  you  understand?"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
mean,  what  company  were  you  in  last,  and  when 
did  it  finish?" 

"Oh,  I  see,"  stammered  Mamie.  "I'm  sorry 
to  say  I've  everything  in  front  of  me !  I've  never 
had  a  part  yet  at  all.  I'm  that  awful  thing — a 
novice." 

"Crumbs!"  said  Miss  Forbes. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  45 

"I  guess  you  actresses  look  down  on  novices 
rather?" 

"Well,  the  profession  is  full  enough  already, 
goodness  knows!  Still,  I  suppose  we've  all  got 
a  right  to  begin.  I  don't  mind  a  novice  who 
goes  to  the  agents  in  the  snow;  it  shows  she 
means  business  anyhow.  It's  the  amateurs  who 
go  to  the  managers  in  hansoms  that  I  hate.  But 
it's  an  awful  struggle,  my  dear,  take  my  word 
for  it;  you'd  better  stop  at  home  if  you  can  af- 
ford to.  And  Passmore  will  never  be  any  use 
to  you.  Look  at  me!  I've  been  going  to  him  for 
four  months;  and  I  played  Prince  Arthur  on 
tour  with  Sullivan  when  I  was  nine." 

"I  am  looking  at  you,"  said  Mamie,  smiling, 
"and  envying  you  till  I'm  ill.  You  say  Pass- 
more  is  no  use:  let  me  into  a  secret.  What  can 
I  do  to  get  an  engagement?" 

"Blest  if  I  know,  if  you  haven't  got  any 
friends  to  pull  the  strings!  I'd  like  to  know  the 
secret  myself.  Well,"  she  broke  off,  "perhaps 
we  shall  meet  again.  I  must  say  good-evening 
here;  there's  my  bus." 

"Don't  go  yet!"  begged  Mamie.  "Won't  you 
come  and  have  some  tea  first?" 

Miss  Forbes  hesitated  eloquently. 

"I  shall  have  tea  when  I  get  home,"  she  mur- 
mured, "and  I'm  rather  late." 


46  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"Oh,  let  me  invite  an  actress  to  tea!  Do, 
please !  It  will  be  the  next  best  thing  to  getting 
a  part." 

"You're  very  kind.  I  don't  mind,  I'm  sure. 
There's  a  place  close  by  where  they  give  you  a 
pot  for  two  for  fourpence.  You're  American, 
aren't  you?" 

"I've  lived  in  America;  I'm  English  really." 

They  were  soon  seated  at  a  table.  Mamie 
ordered  a  pot  of  tea,  and  muffins. 

"It's  nice  and  warm  in  here,"  she  said. 

"Isn't  it!  I  noticed  you  in  the  office.  My 
name  is  Mabel  Forbes;  but  I  daresay  you  heard 
Passmore  speak  to  me?" 

"Yes;  he  didn't  speak  very  nicely,  did  he?" 

"They  never  do;  they're  all  alike.  They  know 
we  can't  do  without  them,  and  they  treat  us  like 
dirt.  I  tell  you,  it's  awful ;  you  don't  know  what 
you're  letting  yourself  in  for,  my  dear." 

"To  succeed  I'd  bear  anything,  all  the  snubs 
and  drudgery  imaginable.  I  do  know;  I  know 
it's  not  to  be  avoided.  I've  read  the  biographies 
of  so  many  great  actresses.  I  should  think  of 
the  future — the  reward.  I'd  set  my  teeth  and 
live  for  that  time;  and  I'd  work  for  it  morning, 
noon,  and  night." 

"It  would  do  me  good  to  live  with  you,  if  we 
were  on  tour  together,"  said  Miss  Forbes  cheer- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  47 

fully;  "y°u 'd  keep  my  pecker  up,  I  think.  I 
loathe  sharing  diggings  with  another  girl,  as  a 
rule — one  always  quarrels  with  her,  and,  with 
the  same  bedroom,  one  has  nowhere  to  go  and 
cry.  After  they've  been  in  the  profession  a  few 
years  they  don't  talk  like  you.  Not  that  there's 
really  much  in  it,"  she  added  with  a  sigh.  "To 
set  your  teeth,  and  work  morning,  noon,  and 
night  sounds  very  fine,  but  what  does  it  amount 
to?  It  means  you'd  get  two-ten  a  week,  and 
study  leading  business  on  the  quiet  till  you 
thought  you  were  as  good  as  Ellen  Terry.  But 
if  nobody  made  you  an  offer,  what  then?" 

"You  mean  it's  possible  to  be  really  clever, 
and  yet  not  to  come  to  the  front?"  asked  Mamie 
earnestly. 

"How  can  you  come  to  the  front  if  no  one 
gives  you  the  opportunity?  You  may  be  liked 
where  you  are — in  what  you're  doing — but  you 
can't  play  lead  in  London  unless  a  London  man- 
ager offers  you  an  engagement  to  play  lead,  can 
you?  You  can't  make  him!  Do  you  suppose 
the  only  clever  actresses  alive  are  those  who're 
known?  Besides,  if  leading  business  is  what  you 
are  thinking  of,  I  don't  believe  you've  the  phy- 
sique for  it;  you  don't  look  strong  enough.  I 
should  have  thought  light  comedy  was  more  your 
line." 


48  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"It  isn't.  If  I'm  meant  for  anything,  it's  for 
drama,  and — and  tragedy.  But  I'd  begin  in  the 
smallest  way  and  be  grateful.  The  ideas  I  had 
when  I  came  to  London  have  been  knocked  out 
of  me — and  they  were  moderate  enough,  too! 
I'd  begin  by  saying  that  the  'dinner  was  ready.' 
Surely  it  can't  be  so  difficult  to  get  an  opening 
like  that,  if  one  knows  how  to  set  about  it?" 

"Well,  look  here,  my  dear.  I  played  Prince 
Arthur  with  Sullivan  when  I  was  nine,  as  I  tell 
you,  and  I've  been  in  the  profession  ever  since. 
But  I've  been  out  of  an  engagement  for  four 
months  now;  all  I  could  save  out  of  my  last 
screw  has  gone  in  bus  fares  and  stamps — and 
my  people  haven't  got  any  more  money  than 
they  know  how  to  spend.  If  an  engagement  to 
announce  the  dinner  had  been  offered  me  to-day, 
I'd  have  taken  it  and  I'd  be  going  back  to  Net- 
ting Hill  happy." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  said  Mamie  sympatheti- 
cally. "Shall  we  have  another  muffin?" 

"No,  I  don't  want  any  more,  thanks.  But 
you've  no  idea  what  a  business  it  is!  I've  got 
talent  and  experience,  and  I'm  not  bad-looking, 
and  yet  you  see  how  I've  got  to  struggle.  One 
is  always  too  late  everywhere.  I  was  at  the 
Queen's  this  morning.  There  are  always  any 
number  of  small  parts  in  the  Queen's  things, 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  49 

you  know,  and  I  thought  there  might  be  a  chance 
for  The  Pride  of  the  Troop.  They'd  got  every- 
body, except  the  extra  ladies.  By  the  way,  you 
might  try  to  get  on  at  the  Queen's  as  an  extra, 
if  you  like.  With  your  appearance  you'd  have 
a  very  good  chance,  I  should  say." 

Mamie  felt  her  heart  stirring  feverishly.  "Do 
you  mean  it?"  she  asked.  "What  are  'extras' — 
you  don't  mean  'supers'?" 

"Oh,  they're  better  than  supers — different 
class,  you  know.  Of  course  they've  nothing  to 
say,  except  in  chorus.  They  come  on  in  the  race- 
course scene  and  the  ball-room  and  look  nice. 
They  wear  swagger  frocks — the  management 
finds  their  dresses — and  are  supposed  to  mur- 
mur, and  laugh,  and  act  in  dumb-show  in  the 
background.  You  know!  They're  frightful 
fools — a  girl  who  could  act  a  bit  would  stand  out 
among  extra  ladies  like  a  Bernhardt  at  the  Lad- 
broke  Hall." 

"If  they'd  take  me,"  said  Mamie,  clasping  her 
hands;  "if  they'd  only  take  me!  Do  you  really 
think  they  will?" 

"It  couldn't  hurt  to  try.  Ask  for  Mr.  Casey 
and  tell  him  you  want  to  'walk  on.'  There,  I've 
given  you  a  hint,  after  all!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she 
got  up ;  "one  can't  think  of  everything  right  off. 
It  might  prove  a  start  for  you;  who  knows?  If 


50  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

Casey  sees  you're  intelligent,  he  may  give  you  a 
line  or  two  to  speak.  You  go  up  to  one  of  the 
principals,  and  say,  'Lord  Tomnoddy,  where's 
that  bracelet  you  promised  to  send  me  when  I 
saw  you  at  Kempton  Park?'  Then  the  low- 
comedy  merchant — it's  generally  the  low- 
comedy  merchant  you  speak  to — says  something 
that  gets  a  laugh,  and  bustles  up  the  stage,  and 
you  run  after  him  angrily.  But  don't  be  san- 
guine, even  of  getting  on  as  an  extra!  There's 
always  a  crowd  of  women  besieging  the  Queen's 
at  every  production — you  won't  be  the  only 
pretty  one.  Well,  I  must  be  going,  my  dear. 
I  wish  you  luck." 

"And  luck  to  you!"  said  Mamie,  squeezing 
her  hand  gratefully;  "and  many,  many  thanks. 
I  look  forward  to  telling  you  the  result.  I 
suppose  we're  sure  to  see  each  other  at  Mr.  Pass- 
more's?" 

"Oh,  we're  bound  to  run  against  each  other 
somewhere  before  long,"  returned  Miss  Forbes 
cordially.  "Yes,  I  shall  be  curious  to  hear  what 
you  do;  I've  enjoyed  our  chat  very  much.  Take 
care  of  yourself!" 

She  hurried  towards  her  bus,  waving  au  re- 
voir,  and  Mamie  crossed  the  road.  London  wid- 
ened between  the  girls — and  their  paths  in  it 
never  met  again. 


CHAPTER  IV 


CHAPTER  IV 

As  she  reached  the  opposite  pavement 
Heriot  exclaimed:  "Miss  Cheriton!  Are  you 
going  to  cut  me?" 

"You?"  she  cried  with  surprise.     "It  was— 
it  was  the  fog's  fault;  I  didn't  see.     What  a 
stranger  you  are !  it's  a  fortnight  since  you  came 
out   to   us.     A    'fortnight,'    you    observe — I'm 
'quite  English,  you  know,'  now." 

"You're  in  good  spirits,"  he  said.  "What 
have  you  been  doing?" 

"I've  been  rising  in  my  career,"  she  answered 
gaily;  "I  have  had  tea  in  a  cakeshop  with  an 
actress.  I  have  just  shaken  hands  with  her; 
she  has  just  given  me  a  piece  of  advice.  I  am, 
in  imagination,  already  a  personage." 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Heriot.  "Where  does 
she  come  from  ?  .  .  .  Let  me  see  you  to  Victoria ; 
I  suppose  that's  where  you  are  going?" 

He  stopped  a  hansom,  and  scrutinised  her 
sadly  as  they  took  their  seats.  "Have  you  been 
out  in  this  weather  long?"  he  said.  "You  poor 
child,  how  wet  you  must  be!  Well,  you  know 

53 


54  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

an  actress.  Aren't  you  going  to  tell  me  all  about 
it?" 

She  was  as  voluble  as  he  wished;  he  had  be- 
come in  the  last  few  months  her  confidant  and 
consoler.  Lavender  Street,  Wandsworth,  or 
those  residents  who  commanded  a  view  of  No.  20, 
had  learnt  to  know  his  figure  well.  Awhile  ago 
he  had  marvelled  at  the  role  he  was  filling;  lat- 
terly he  had  ceased  to  marvel.  He  realised  the 
explanation — and  as  he  listened  to  her  tale  her 
words  smote  him.  It  hurt  him  to  think  of  the 
girl  beside  him  cringing  to  a  theatrical  agent, 
forming  a  chance  acquaintance  in  the  streets,  and 
contemplating  so  ignoble  a  position  as  the  one 
of  which  she  spoke.  He  looked  at  her  yearn- 
ingly. 

"You  are  not  pleased,"  she  said. 

"Is  there  a  great  deal  to  be  pleased  at?  Is 
this  sort  of  thing  worthy  of  you?" 

"It  is  the  first  step.  Oh,  be  nice  about  it,  do! 
If  you  understood  .  .  .  can  I  be  Juliet  at  once? 
If  I'm  to  succeed " 

"I  have  sympathised  with  you,"  he  said;  "I've 
entered  into  your  feelings ;  I  do  understand.  But 
you  don't  know  what  you're  meditating.  Ad- 
mitting it's  inevitable — admitting,  if  you're  to  be 
an  actress,  that  you  must  begin,  since  you've  no 
influence,  where  you're  content  to  begin — can 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  55 

you  bear  it?  These  women  you'll  be  thrown 
amongst — 

"Some,  at  least,"  she  said,  "will  be  like  myself, 
surely?  I  am  not  the  only  girl  who  has  to  begin. 
And  .  .  .  Whatever  they  are,  it  can't  be  helped ! 
Remember,  I'm  in  earnest!  I  talked  at  first 
wildly ;  I  see  how  childish  I  was.  What  should  I 
be  if  I  faltered  because  the  path  isn't  strewn  with 
roses?  An  actress  must  be  satisfied  to  work." 

"It  isn't  decreed  that  you  need  be  an  actress," 
answered  Heriot.  "After  all,  there  is  no  neces- 
sity to  fight  for  your  bread-and-butter.  If  you 
were  compelled— 

"There  are  more  compelling  forces  than 
poverty.  Can't  you  recognise  ambition?" 

"Haven't  I?"  he  said.    "Have  I  been  wood?" 

"Ah,"  she  smiled,  "forgive  me.  I  didn't  mean 
that.  But  be  nice  still.  Am  I  to  reject  a  career 
because  I'm  not  starving?  I'm  starving  with 
my  soul.  I'm  like  a  poor  mute  battling  for 
voice.  I  want — I  want  to  give  expression  to 
what  I  feel  within  me."  She  beat  her  hands  in 
her  lap.  "I'm  willing  to  struggle — eager  to! 
You've  always  known  it.  Why  do  you  disap- 
point me  now?  I  have  to  begin  even  lower  than 
I  understood,  that's  all.  And  what  is  it?  I 
shall  be  surrounded  by  artists  then.  By  degrees 
I  shall  rise.  'You  are  in  the  right  way,  but  re- 


56  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

member  what  I  say,  Study,  study,  study!  Study 
well,  and  God  bless  you!'  Do  you  know  who 
said  that? — Mrs.  Siddons  to  Macready.  It  was 
at  Newcastle,  and  it  was  about  her  performance 
the  same  night  that  he  wrote:  'The  violence  of 
her  emotion  seemed  beyond  her  power  longer  to 
endure,  and  the  words,  faintly  articulated,  "Was 
he  alive?"  sent  an  electric  thrill  through  the  au- 
dience.' Think  what  that  means;  three  words! 
I  can't  do  it,  I've  tried — oh,  how  I've  tried!  For 
months  after  I  read  that  book,  I  used  to  say 
them  dozens  of  times  every  .day,  with  every  in- 
tonation I  could  think  of.  But  there  was  no 
effect,  no  thrill  even  to  myself.  'Study,  study, 
study!  Keep  your  mind  on  your  art,  do  not  re- 
mit your  study,  and  you  are  certain  to  succeed F 
I  will  keep  my  mind  on  it,  I'll  obey  her  advice,  I 
will  succeed.  Heaven  couldn't  be  so  cruel  as  to 
let  me  fail  after  putting  such  longings  into  me." 

Heriot  sighed.  The  impulse  to  tell  her  that 
he  loved  her,  to  keep  her  to  himself,  was  .master- 
ing him.  Never  before  had  her  hold  on  him  been 
displayed  so  vividly,  nor  had  the  temptation  to 
throw  prudence  to  the  winds  been  quite  so  strong. 

"If  you  had  a  happier  home,"  he  said,  "there 
would  be  other  influences.  Don't  think  me  .im- 
pertinent, but  it  can't  be  very  lively  for  you  in 
that  house." 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  57 

"It  isn't  a  whirl  of  gaiety,  and  Aunt  Lydia 
is  not  ideal.  But — but  I  was  just  the  same  in 
Duluth." 

"Duluth!"  he  echoed;  "it  was  dreary  in  Du- 
luth, too." 

"At  all  events  I  had  my  father  there." 

"What  does  he  write?"  asked  Heriot.  "Have 
you  had  a  letter  since  I  saw  you?" 

"He  gives  no  news.  The  news  is  to  come 
from  me." 

"I  think  there's  a  little,"  he  said;  "I  can  tell 
it  by  your  tone." 

"It's  cheerful  to  be  with  someone  who  can  tell 
things  by  one's  tone.  Well,  he  thinks,  if  I  can't 
make  a  beginning,  that  I  may  as  well  go  back." 

"I  see,"  he  said.  "I  won't  ask  you  if  you 
mean  to." 

She  laughed  a  shade  defiantly.  "Duluth  has 
many  charms — I've  been  remembering  them  since 
his  letter.  There  is  my  father,  and  there's  straw- 
berry-shortcake. My  father  will  be  disappointed 
in  me  if  I  have  to  go;  the  strawberry-shortcake 
—well,  there's  a  tiny  shop  there  where  they  sell 
it  hot.  I've  never  seen  it, hot  anywhere  else — and 
they  turn  on  the  cream  with  a  tap,  out  of  a  thing 
that  looks  like  a  miniature  cistern." 

"You're  not  going  back,"  he  said.  "You're 
going  on  the  stage  as  a  supernumerary  instead?" 


58  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

In  the  flare  of  the  station  lamps  her  eyes 
flashed  at  him;  he  could  see  the  passionate  trem- 
bling of  her  mouth.  The  cab  stopped,  and  they 
got  out,  and  threaded  their  way  among  the  crowd 
to  the  barriers.  There  was  a  train  in  ten  min- 
utes, Heriot  learnt. 

"Shall  we  go  to  the  waiting-room?" 

"No,"  said  Miss  Cheriton. 

"Forgive  me  what  I  said  just  now.  I  am 
sorry." 

"What  does  it  matter?" 

"It  was  brutal." 

"Rather,  perhaps.  It  was  unexpected.  You 
have  failed  me  when  I  wanted  you  most." 

He  took  two  first-class  tickets — he  wished  to 
be  alone  with  her,  and  he  knew  that  she  travelled 
"second." 

"I'm  coming  with  you,"  he  said. 

"But  you  can't  have  dined?  Our  suppers  are 
not  extensive." 

"Let  us  get  in!"  he  answered. 

They  had  the  compartment  to  themselves 
when  the  door  banged,  and  he  regarded  her 
silently,  with  nerves  that  had  escaped  control. 

"I  have  warned  you,"  she  said.  "It  will  be 
something  out  of  a  tin  for  certain,  with  vinegar 
over  it." 

"Mamie!" 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  59 

There  was  rebuke  in  her  expression. 

"Mamie,"  he  repeated,  "I  love  you.  Why  I 
dislike  your  going  on  the  stage  is  because  I  want 
you  myself.  I  was  'brutal'  because  I'm  fond  of 
you.  Will  you  marry  me?" 

She  lay  back  against  the  darkness  of  the  cush- 
ions, pale  and  startled. 

"Are  you  serious?"  she  said.  "You — want  to 
marry  me?  do  you  mean  it?" 

"I  mean  it.  I  don't  seem  able  to  tell  you  how 
much  I  mean  it.  Can  you  like  me  well  enough 
to  be  my  wife?" 

"I  do  like  you,"  she  stammered;  "but  I  hadn't 
an  idea.  ...  I  never  thought  you  thought— 
Oh,  I'm  sorry!" 

"Why?    Why  can't  you  say 'yes'?" 

"To  marry  you?" 

"I'll  be  very  gentle  to  you,"  he  said  shakily. 
"I — for  God's  sake,  don't  judge  my  love  for 
you  by  the  way  I  put  it!  I  haven't  had  much 
practice  in  love-making;  it's  a  pity,  perhaps, 
There's  a  word  that  says  it  all — I  'worship'  you. 
My  darling,  what  have  you  to  look  forward  to? 
You've  seen,  you've  tried,  you  know  what  an 
uphill  life  it  will  be.  It's  not  as  if  I  begged  you 
to  waive  your  hopes  while  you  had  encourage- 
ment to  hope — you've  made  the  attempt,  and 
you  know  the  difficulties  now.  Come  to  me  in- 


60  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

stead.  You  shall  live  where  you  like — you  can 
choose  your  own  quarter.  You  can  have  every- 
thing you  care  for — books,  pictures,  theatres  too. 
Oh,  my  sweet,  come  to  me,  and  I'll  fulfil  every 
wish!  Will  you,  Mamie?" 

"I  can't,"  she  said  tremulously,  "it  wouldn't 
be  fair."  Her  eyes  shone  at  him,  and  she  leant 
forward  with  parted  lips.  "I  like  you,  I  like 

you  very  much,  but  I  don't — I'm  not I've 

never  been  in  love  with  anyone." 

"I'll  be  grateful  for  small  mercies,"  said 
Heriot,  with  an  unhappy  laugh. 

"And  I  caidd  not  do  what  you  ask.  If  I  fail, 
I  fail ;  but  I  must  persevere.  I  can't  accept  fail- 
ure voluntarily — I  can't  stretch  out  my  arms  to 
it.  I  should  despise  myself  if  I  gave  in  to-day. 
Even  you " 

"You  know  better  than  that!"  he  said. 

"Well,  yes,"  she  owned,  "perhaps  I'm  wrong 
there ;  to  you  it  would  seem  a  sensible  step.  But 
I  believe  in  myself.  All  my  life  I've  had  the 
thought,  and  I  should  be  miserable,  I  should  hate 
myself!  I  should  be  like  my  father — I  should 
be  always  thinking  of  the  'might  have  been.' 
You'd  be  good  to  me,  but  you'd  know  you  had 
been  a  fool.  I'm  not  a  bit  the  sort  of  woman  you 
should  marry,  and  you'd  repent  it." 

Heriot  took  her  hand  and  held  it  tightly. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  61 

"I  love  you,"  he  said.  "Consider  your  own 
happiness  only.  I  love  you." 

"I  am  quite  selfish — I  know  it  wouldn't  con- 
tent me;  I'm  not  pretending  to  any  nobility. 
But  I'm  sorry;  I  may  say  that?  I  didn't  dream 
you  liked  me  in  this  way.  I'm  not  hard,  I'm  not 
a  horror,  and  I  can  see — I  can  see  that  I'm  a  lot 
to  you." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  he  said  simply.  "Yes, 
you're  'a  lot  to  me,'  Mamie.  If  you  know  it, 
and  you  can't  care  for  me  enough,  there's  no 
more  for  me  to  say.  Don't  worry  yourself.  It's 
not  unusual  for  a  man  to  be  fond  of  a  woman 
who  doesn't  want  to  marry  him." 


CHAPTER  V 


CHAPTER  V 

SHE  betook  herself  to  the  Queen's  next  morn- 
ing less  buoyantly  than  she  had  anticipated.  Her 
meeting  with  Heriot  had  depressed  her.  She 
retained  much  of  the  nature  of  a  child,  and 
laughed  or  cried  very  easily.  She  had  met 
Heriot  laughing,  and  he  had  been  serious  and 
sad.  With  some  petulance  she  felt  that  it  was 
very  unfortunate  for  her  that  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with  her,  and  chosen  that  particular  day 
to  tell  her  so. 

She  entered  the  stage-door  with  no  presenti- 
ment of  conquest,  and  inquired  of  the  man  in 
the  little  recess  if  Mr.  Casey  was  in  the  theatre. 
Stage-door  keepers  are  probably  the  surliest  class 
in  existence.  They  have  much  to  try  them,  and 
they  spend  their  official  lives  in  a  violent  draught ; 
but  if  there  is  a  stage-door  keeper  sweet  and 
sunny  in  his  home,  he  provides  an  interesting 
study  for  the  dramatic  authors. 

The  man  took  her  measure  in  an  instant,  sav- 
ing in  one  particular — she  was  prepared  to  give 
him  a  shilling  and  he  did  not  guess  it. 

65 


66  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"Mr.  Casey's  on  the  stage,"  he  said;  "he  won't 
be  disturbed  now." 

"If  I  waited,  do  you  think  I  might  see  him?" 

"I  couldn't  tell  you,  I'm  sure." 

He  resumed  his  perusal  of  a  newspaper,  and 
Mamie  looked  at  him  through  the  aperture  help- 
lessly. There  was  the  usual  knot  of  loafers  about 
the  step — a  scene-hand  or  two  in  their  shirt- 
sleeves; a  girl  in  her  pathetic  best  dress,  also 
hoping  for  miracles;  a  member  of  the  company, 
who  had  slipped  out  from  rehearsal  to  smoke  a 
cigarette. 

Cerberus  was  shown  where  his  estimate  had 
been  at  fault.  He  said  "Miss"  now:  "If  you 
write  your  business  on  one  of  these  forms,  Miss, 
I'll  send  it  in  to  Mr.  Casey." 

He  gave  her  a  stump  of  pencil,  and  a  printed 
slip,  specially  designed  to  scare  intruders.  She 
wrote  her  name,  and  Mr.  Casey's  name,  and 
could  find  no  scope  for  euphemisms  regarding 
the  nature  of  the  interview  she  sought.  She 
added,  "To  obtain  engagement  as  extra  lady," 
and  returned  the  paper  with  embarrassment ;  she 
was  sufficiently  unsophisticated  in  such  matters 
to  assume  that  her  motive  had  not  been  divined. 

"  'Ere,  Bill!"  One  of  the  scene-hands  turned. 
"Take  it  in  to  Mr.  Casey  for  this  lady." 

The  man  addressed  as  Bill  departed  through 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  67 

a  second  door  with  a  grunt  and  a  bang,  and  she 
waited  expectantly.  The  girl  in  her  best  dress 
sneered;  she  could  not  afford  to  dispense  shill- 
ings, herself,  and  already  her  feet  ached.  The 
door  swung  back  constantly.  At  intervals  of  a 
few  seconds  a  stream  of  nondescripts  issued  from 
the  unknown  interior,  and  Mamie  stood  watching 
for  the  features  of  her  messenger.  It  was  nearly 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  he  reappeared. 

"Mr.  Casey  can't  see  you,"  he  announced. 

The  stage-door  keeper  heard  the  intelligence 
with  absolute  indifference;  but  the  girl  on  the 
step  looked  gratified. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  asked  Mamie. 

"I  can't  do  no  more  than  send  in  for  you, 
Miss.  It  ain't  much  good  your  waiting — the  call 
won't  be  over  till  three  o'clock." 

"Could  I  see  him  then?" 

"He'll  come  out.  If  you  like  to  take  your 
chance— 

"I'll  come  back  at  three  o'clock,"  she  said. 
It  was  then  eleven. 

She  turned  into  the  Strand — the  Strand  that 
has  broken  more  hearts  than  Fleet  Street.  Here 
a  young  actor  passed  her,  who  was  also  pacing 
the  inhospitable  pavements  until  the  hour  in 
which  he  hoped  to  see  patience  and  importunity 
bear  fruit.  He  wore  a  fashionable  overcoat,  and 


68  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

swung  his  cane  with  a  gloved  hand.  Presently 
he  would  seek  a  public-house  and  lunch  on  a 
scone,  and  a  glass  of  "mild-and-bitter."  If  he 
had  "bitter,"  he  would  be  a  halfpenny  short  in 
his  homeward  fare  to  Bow.  There  a  musical 
comedy  actress  went  by  who  had  "married  a 
swell."  His  family  had  been  deeply  wounded, 
and  showed  their  mortification  by  allowing  her  to 
support  him.  She  had  had  three  children;  and 
when  he  was  drunk,  which  was  frequently,  he 
said,  "God  forbid  that  they  should  ever  become 
damned  mummers  like  their  mother!"  A  man- 
ager had  just  told  her  that  "she  had  lost  her 
figure  and  wouldn't  look  the  part!"  and  she  was 
walking  back  to  Islington,  where  the  brokers 
were  in  the  house.  A  popular  comedian,  who 
had  been  compelled  to  listen  to  three  separate 
tales  of  distress  between  Charing  Cross  and  Bed- 
ford Street,  and  had  already  lent  unfortunate 
acquaintances  thirty  shillings,  paused,  and  hailed 
a  hansom  from  motives  of  economy.  It  was  the 
typical  crowd  of  the  Strand,  a  crowd  of  the  foot- 
lights. The  men  whose  positions  had  been  won 
were  little  noticeable,  but  the  gait  and  costume 
of  the  majority — affected  Youth,  and  disheart- 
ened Age — indicated  their  profession  to  the  least 
experienced  eyes.  Because  she  grew  very  tired, 
and  not  that  she  had  any  expectation  of  hearing 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  69 

good  news,  Mamie  went  into  Mr.  Passmore's 
office,  and  sat  down. 

And  she  did  not  hear  any.  After  an  hour  she 
went  away,  and  rested  next  in  the  anteroom  of 
another  of  the  agents,  who  repeated  that  "things 
were  very  quiet,"  and  that  "he  wouldn't  forget 
her."  Seven  or  eight  other  girls  were  waiting 
their  turn  to  be  told  the  same  thing.  At  a  quarter 
to  three  she  went  back  to  the  Queen's. 

"Is  he  coming  out  now?"  she  said.  "Am  I 
too  soon?" 

"Eh?"  said  the  stage-door  keeper. 

"You  told  me  he'd  be  out  about  three.  I  was 
asking  for  Mr.  Casey  this  morning." 

"Oh,  were  you?"  he  said.  "There's  been  a 
good  many  asking  for  him  since  then."  He 
gradually  recalled  her.  "Mr.  Casey's  gone,"  he 
added;  "they  finished  early.  He  won't  be  here 
till  to-night." 

There  was  a  week  in  which  she  went  to  the 
stage-door  of  the  Queen's  Theatre  every  day,  at 
all  hours,  and  at  last  she  learnt  casually  that 
as  many  extra  ladies  as  were  required  for  the 
production  had  been  engaged.  There  were 
months  during  which  she  persisted  in  her  ap- 
plications at  other  stage-doors  and  hope  flickered 
within  her  still.  But  when  September  came,  and 
a  year  had  passed  since  her  arrival,  the  expiring 


70  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

spark  had  faded  into  lassitude.  She  tried  no 
longer.  Only  sometimes,  out  of  the  sickness  of 
her  soul,  the  impulse  to  write  was  born,  and  she 
picked  up  a  pen. 

Then  it  was  definitely  decided  that  she  should 
return  to  America.  It  was  characteristic  of  her 
that  she  had  no  sooner  dried  her  eyes  after  the 
decision  than  she  was  restless  to  return  at  once; 
Duluth  was  no  drearier  than  Wandsworth.  Ex- 
ternally it  was  even  picturesque,  with  the  blue 
water  and  the  sunshine,  and  the  streets  of  white 
houses  rising  in  tiers  like  a  theatre;  in  Duluth 
the  residents  "looked  down  on  one  another" 
literally.  The  life  was  appalling,  but  when  all 
was  said,  was  it  more  limited  than  Aunt  Lydia? 
And  if,  in  lieu  of  acting,  she  dared  aspire  to 
dramatic  authorship — the  thought  stirred  her  oc- 
casionally— she  could  work  as  well  in  Minnesota 
as  in  Middlesex.  Cheriton  had  remitted  the 
amount  of  her  passage,  and  suggested  that  she 
should  sail  in  a  week  or  two.  She  had  not  re- 
ceived the  draft  two  hours  when  she  went  up  to 
town  and  booked  a  berth  in  the  next  steamer. 

When  it  was  done,  she  posted  a  note  to  Heriot, 
acquainting  him  with  her  intention.  His  visits 
had  not  been  discontinued,  but  he  came  at  much 
longer  intervals  latterly,  and  she  could  not  go 
without  bidding  him  good-bye. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  71 

She  sat  in  the  Lavender  Street  parlour  the 
next  evening,  wondering  if  he  would  come.  Al- 
most she  hoped  that  he  would  not.  She  had 
written,  and  therefore  done  her  duty.  To  see 
him  would,  in  the  circumstances,  humiliate  her 
cruelly,  she  felt.  She  remembered  how  she  had 
talked  to  him  twelve  months  before — recalled  her 
confidence,  her  pictures  of  a  future  that  she  was 
never  to  know,  and  her  eyes  smarted  afresh. 
She  had  even  failed  to  obtain  a  hearing.  "What 
a  fool,  what  an  idiot  I  look!"  she  thought  pas- 
sionately. 

Tea  was  over,  but  the  maid-of-all-work  had 
not  removed  the  things;  and  when  Heriot  en- 
tered, the  large  loaf  and  the  numerous  knives, 
which  are  held  indispensable  to  afternoon  tea 
in  Lavender  Street,  were  still  on  the  big  round 
table.  The  aspect  of  the  room  did  not  strike  him 
any  more.  He  was  familiar  with  it,  like  the  view 
of  the  kitchen  when  the  front  door  had  been 
opened,  and  the  glimpse  of  clothes-line  in  the 
yard  beyond. 

"May  I  come  in?"  he  said.  "Did  you  expect 
me?" 

"Lor,  it's  Mr.  Heriot!"  said  Mrs.  Baines. 
"Fancy!" 

She  told  the  servant  to  take  away  the  tea- 
pot, and  to  bring  in  another  knife.  He  won- 


72  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

dered  vaguely  what  he  was  supposed  to  do 
with  it. 

"I  thought  it  likely  you'd  be  here,"  said 
Mamie;  "won't  you  sit  down?" 

"I  only  had  your  letter  this  morning.  So  you 
are  going  away?" 

"I  am  going  away.  I  bow,  more  or  less  grace- 
fully, to  the  inevitable." 

"To  bow  gracefully  to  the  inevitable  is  strong 
evidence  of  the  histrionic  gift,"  he  said. 

"I  carne,  I  saw,  I  was  conquered;  please  don't 
talk  about  it.  ...  It  was  only  settled  yesterday. 
I  sail  on  Saturday,  you  know." 

"Yes,  you  wrote  me,"  murmured  Heriot.  "It's 
very  sudden." 

"I'm  crazy  to  do  something,  if  only  to  confess 
myself  beaten." 

"May  I  offer  you  a  cup  o'  tea,  Mr.  Heriot?" 
asked  Mrs.  Baines. 

She  always  "offered"  cups  of  tea,  and  was  in- 
debted to  neighbours  for  their  "hospitality." 

He  thanked  her. 

"You  will  miss  your  niece?"  he  said,  declin- 
ing a  place  at  the  table,  to  which  she  had  moved 
a  chair. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure!"  she  answered.  "I  say  now 
it's  a  pity  she  didn't  go  with  her  father  last 
October.  Going  in  a  vessel  by  herself,  oh,  dear! 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  73 

I  say  I  wouldn't  have  got  accustomed  to  having 
her  with  me  if  she'd  gone  with  her  father.  Though 
that's  neither  here  nor  there!" 

"Yes,  I  think  you  may  believe  you'll  be  missed, 
Miss  Cheriton,"  he  said. 

"I  say  it's  very  odd  she  couldn't  be  an  actress 
as  she  wanted,"  continued  Mrs.  Baines.  "Seems 
so  unfortunate  with  all  the  trouble  that  she  took. 
But  lor,  my  dear,  we  can't  see  what  lies  ahead 
of  us,  and  perhaps  it's  all  for  the  best!  I  say 
perhaps  it's  all  for  the  best,  Mr.  Heriot,  eh? 
Dear  Mamie  may  be  meant  to  do  something 
different — writing,  or  such  like;  it's  not  for  us 
to  say." 

"Have  you  been  writing  again?"  asked  Heriot, 
turning  to  the  girl. 

"A  little,"  she  said  bitterly.  "My  vanity  dies 
hard — and  Aunt  Lydia  has  encouraged  me." 

Heriot  looked  a  reproach;  her  tone  hurt  him, 
though  he  understood  of  what  it  was  the  out- 
come. 

"I  should  be  glad  if  you  had  encouragement," 
he  replied;  "I  think  you  need  it  now." 

But  it  hurt  him,  also,  to  discuss  her  pain  in 
the  presence  of  the  intolerable  third.  He  knew 
that  if  he  remained  to  supper  there  would  be  a 
preparatory  quarter  of  an  hour  in  which  he  was 
alone  with  her;  and  it  was  for  this  quarter  of  an 


74  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

hour  that  he  hungered,  conscious  that  during  the 
opening  of  the  lobster-tin  two  destinies  would  be 
determined. 

"That's  right,  Mr.  Heriot,"  said  Mrs.  Baines 
placidly.  "I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  That's 
what  I've  been  telling  her.  I  say  she  mustn't 
be  disheartened.  Why,  it's  surprising,  I'm  sure, 
how  much  seems  to  be  thought  of  people  who 
write  stories  and  things  nowadays ;  they  seem  to 
make  quite  a  fuss  of  them,  don't  they?  And  I'm 
certain  dear  Mamie  could  write  if  she  put  her 
mind  to  it.  I  was  reading  in  the  paper,  Tit-Bits, 
only  last  week,  that  there  was  a  book  called 
Robert  Ellis,  or  some  such  name,  that  made  the 
author  quite  talked  about.  Now,  I  read  the  piece 
out  to  you,  dear,  didn't  I?  A  book  about  re- 
ligion, it  was,  by  a  lady ;  and  I'm  sure  dear  Mamie 
knows  as  much  about  religion  as  anyone." 

"My  aunt  means  Robert  Elsmere"  said 
Mamie,  in  a  laboured  voice.  "You  may  have 
heard  it  mentioned?" 

"You  mustn't  expect  Mr.  Heriot  to  know 
much  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Baines;  "Mr.  Heriot 
is  so  busy  a  gentleman  that  very  likely  he  doesn't 
hear  of  these  things.  But  I  assure  you,  Mr. 
Heriot,  the  story  seems  to  have  been  read  a  great 
deal;  and  what  I  say  is,  if  dear  Mamie  can't  be 
an  actress,  why  shouldn't  she  write  books,  if  she 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  75 

wants  to  do  something  of  the  sort  ?  I  wonder  my 
brother  didn't  teach  her  to  paint,  with  her  no- 
tions and  that — but,  not  having  learnt,  I  say 
she  ought  to  write  books.  That's  the  thing  for 
her — a  nice  pen  and  ink,  and  her  own  home." 

"I  agree  with  you,  Mrs.  Baines.  If  she  wants 
to  write,  she  can  do  that  in  her  own  home." 

"Not  to  compare  it  with  such  a  profession  as 
yours,  Mr.  Heriot,"  she  said,  "which,  of  course, 
is  sensible  and  grave.  But  girls  can't  be  bar- 
risters, and ' 

"Will  you  open  the  window  for  me?"  exclaimed 
Mamie;  "it's  frightfully  warm,  don't  you  think 
so?" 

She  stood  there  with  her  head  thrown  back,  and 
closed  eyes,  her  foot  tapping  the  floor  restlessly. 

"Are  you  wishing  you  hadn't  come?"  she  asked 
under  her  breath. 

"Why?" 

"One  must  suffer  to  be  polite  here." 

"Aren't  you  a  little  unjust?"  said  Heriot  de- 
precatingly. 

"You  have  it  for  an  hour,"  she  muttered;  "I 
have  had  it  for  twelve  months.  Have  you  ever 
wanted  to  shriek?  I  wanted  to  shriek  just 
now,  violently!" 

"I  know  you  did,"  he  said.  "Well,  it's  nearly 
over.  .  .  .  Are  you  glad?" 


76  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 


"Yes,  and  no — I  can't  say.     If " 

"Won't  you  go  on?" 

"If  I  dared  hope  to  do  anything  else  .  .  . 
but  I'm  not  going  to  talk  like  that  any  more! 
I'm  ridiculous  enough  already." 

"To  whom  are  you  ridiculous?" 

"To  my  own  perception — you!" 

"Not  to  me,"  he  said. 

"'Pathetic'?  Yes,  to  you  I'm 'pathetic.'  You 
pity  me  as  you  might  pity  a  lunatic  who  imagined 
she  was  the  Queen  of  England." 

"I  think  you  know,"  said  Heriot  diffidently, 
"that  neither  the  Queen  nor  a  lunatic  inspires  in 
me  quite  the  feeling  that  I  have  for  you." 

She  changed  her  position,  and  spoke  at  ran- 
dom: 

"This  street  is  awfully  stupid,  isn't  it?"  she 
said.  "Look  at  that  man  going  up  the  steps!" 

"Yes,  he  is  very  stupid,  I  daresay.  What  of 
it?" 

"He's  a  clerk,"  she  said;  "and  wheels  his  babies 
out  on  Sunday." 

"Mamie!" 

"Come  and  talk  to  Aunt  Lydia  again.  How 
rude  we  are!" 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you"  he  demurred. 
"Aren't  you  going  to  ask  me  to  stay  to  sup- 
per?" 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  77 

The  suggestion  came  from  the  widow  almost 
at  the  same  moment. 

"I  think  we  had  better  have  the  lamp,"  she 
went  on.  "The  days  are  drawing  in  fast,  Mr. 
Heriot,  aren't  they?  We  shall  soon  have  winter 
again.  Do  you  like  the  long  evenings,  or  the  long 
afternoons  best?  Just  about  now  I  always  say 
that  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  having  to  begin 
lighting  up  at  five  or  six  o'clock — it  seems  so  un- 
natural ;  and  then,  next  summer,  somehow  I  feel 
quite  lost,  not  being  able  to  let  down  the  blinds 
and  light  the  lamp  for  tea.  Mamie,  dear,  shut 
the  window,  and  let  down  the  blinds  before  I 
light  the  lamp — somebody  might  see  in!"  She 
suggested  the  danger  in  the  same  tone  in  which 
she  might  have  apprehended  a  burglary. 

Under  a  glass  shade  a  laggard  clock  ticked 
drearily  towards  the  crisis,  and  Heriot  provoked 
its  history  by  the  eagerness  with  which  he  looked 
to  see  the  time.  It  had  been  a  wedding-present 
from  "poor  dear  Edward's  brother,"  and  only 
one  clockmaker  had  really  understood  it.  The 
man  had  died,  and  since  then- 
He  listened,  praying  for  the  kitchen  to  engulf 
her. 

When  she  withdrew  at  last,  with  an  apology 
for  leaving  him,  he  rose,  and  went  to  the  girl's 
side. 


78  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"Do  you  know  why  I  came  this  afternoon?" 
he  said. 

She  did  know — had  known  it  in  the  moment 
that  he  opened  the  window  for  her. 

"To  say  good-bye,"  she  murmured. 

"I  came  to  beg  you  not  to  go.  Dearest,  what 
do  you  relinquish  by  marrying  me  now?  Not 
the  stage — your  hope  of  the  stage  is  over;  not 
your  ambition  in  itself — you  can  be  ambitious  as 
my  wife.  You  lose  nothing,  and  you  give — a 
heaven.  Mamie,  won't  you  stay?" 

She  leant  on  the  mantelpiece  without  speak- 
ing. In  the  pause,  Mrs.  Baines'  voice  reached 
them  distinctly,  as  she  said,  "Put  the  brawn  on 
a  smaller  dish." 

"You  are  forgetting.  There  was  ...  a  reason 
besides  the  stage." 

"It  is  you  who've  forgotten.  I  told  you  I 
would  be  content.  ...  It  wouldn't  be  repugnant 
to  you?" 

"To  refuse  while  I  thought  I  had  a  future,  and 

to  say  *yes»'  now  t^at How  can  you  ask 

me?  It  would  be  an  insult  to  your  love." 

"I  do  ask  you,"  he  urged ;  "I  implore." 

"You  implore  me  to  be  contemptible.  You 
would  have  a  disappointed  woman  for  your  wife. 
You  deserve  something  better  than  that." 

"Oh,  my  God,"  said  Heriot,  in  a  low  voice, 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  79 

"if  I  could  only  tell  you  how  I  ache  to  take  you 
in  my  arms — as  softly  as  if  you  were  a  child!  If 
I  could  tell  you  what  it  is  to  me  to  know  that  you 
are  passing  out  of  my  life  and  that  in  two  days' 
time  I  shall  never  see  you  again!  .  .  .  Mamie?" 

The  heavy  shuffle  of  the  servant  was  heard  in 
the  passage. 

"Mamie?"  he  repeated  desperately.  "It  will 
be  worse  over  there." 

Her  eyes  were  big  with  perplexity  and  doubt. 

"Mamie?" 

"Are  you  sure  you — sure " 

"I  love  you;  I  want  you.  Only  trust  me! 
.  .  .  Mamie?" 

"If  you're  quite  sure  you  wish  it,"  she  faltered 
—"yes!" 


CHAPTER  VI 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHEN  Heriot  informed  his  brother  of  his 
approaching  marriage,  Sir  Francis  said,  "I 
never  offer  advice  to  a  man  on  matters  of  this 
sort";  and  proceeded  to  advise.  He  considered 
the  union  undesirable,  and  used  the  word. 

Heriot  replied,  "On  the  contrary,  I  desire  it 
extremely." 

"You're  of  course  the  best  judge  of  your  own 
affairs.  I'll  only  say  that  it  is  hardly  the  attach- 
ment I  should  have  expected  you  to  form.  It 
appears  to  me — if  I  may  employ  the  term — 
romantic." 

"I  should  say,"  said  Heriot,  in  his  most  im- 
passive manner,  "that  that  is  what  it  might  be 
called.  Admitting  the  element  of  romance,  what 
of  it?" 

"We  are  not  boys,  George,"  said  Sir  Francis. 
He  added,  "And  the  lady  is  twenty-two!  The 
father  is  an  hotel-keeper  in  the  United  States, 
you  tell  me,  and  the  aunt  lives  at  Wandsworth. 
Socially,  Wandsworth  is  farther  than  the  United 
States,  but  geographically  it  is  close.  This  Mrs. 

83 


84  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

Payne — or  Baynes — is  not  a  connection  you  will 
be  proud  of,  I  take  it?" 

"I  shall  be  very  proud  of  my  wife,"  said 
Heriot,  with  some  stiffness.  "There  are  more 
pedigrees  than  happy  marriages." 

The  Baronet  looked  at  his  watch.  "As  I  have 
said,  it's  not  a  matter  that  I  would  venture  to 
advise  you  upon.  Of  course  I  congratulate  you. 
We  shall  see  Miss  Cheriton  at  Sandhills,  I  hope? 
and — er — Catherine  will  be  delighted  to  make 
her  acquaintance.  I  have  to  meet  Phil  at  the 
Club.  He's  got  some  absurd  idea  of  exchanging 
— wants  to  go  out  to  India,  and  see  active  serv- 
ice. And  I  got  him  into  the  Guards !  Boys  are 
damned  ungrateful.  .  .  .  When  do  you  marry  ?" 

"Very  shortly — during  the  vacation.  There'll 
be  no  fuss." 

Sir  Francis  told  his  wife  that  it  was  very 
"lamentable,"  and  Lady  Heriot  preferred  to  de- 
scribe it  as  "disgusting."  But  in  spite  of  adjec- 
tives the  ceremony  took  place. 

The  honeymoon  was  brief,  and  when  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  came  back  to  town,  they  stayed 
at  an  hotel  in  Victoria  Street  while  they  sought 
a  flat.  Ultimately  they  decided  upon  one  in 
South  Kensington,  and  it  was  the  man's  delight 
to  render  this  as  exquisite  as  taste  and  money 
made  possible.  The  furniture  for  his  study  had 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  85 

simply  to  be  transferred  from  his  bachelor  quar- 
ters, but  the  other  rooms  gave  scope  for  a  hun- 
dred consultations  and  caprices;  and  like  a  lad 
he  enjoyed  the  moments  in  which  he  and  Mamie 
bent  their  heads  together  over  patterns  and 
designs. 

She  would  have  been  more  than  human,  and 
less  than  lovable,  if  in  those  early  weeks  her 
disappointment  had  not  been  lost  sight  of;  more 
than  a  girl  if  the  atmosphere  of  devotion  in 
which  she  moved  had  not  persuaded  her  pri- 
marily that  she  was  content.  Only  after  the 
instatement  was  effected  and  the  long  days  while 
her  husband  was  away  were  no  longer  occupied 
by  upholsterers'  plans,  did  the  earliest  returning 
stir  of  recollection  come;  only  as  she  wandered 
from  the  drawing-room  to  the  dining-room  and 
could  find  no  further  touches  to  make,  did  she 
first  sigh. 

A  gift  of  Heriot's — he  had  chosen  it  without 
her  knowledge,  and  it  had  been  delivered  as  a 
surprise — was  a  writing-table;  a  writing-table 
that  was  not  meant  merely  to  be  a  costly  orna- 
ment. And  one  morning  she  sat  down  to  it 
and  began  another  attempt  at  a  play.  The  occu- 
pation served  to  interest  her,  and  now  the  days 
were  not  so  empty.  In  the  evening,  as  often  as 
he  was  able,  Heriot  took  her  out  to  a  theatre, 


86  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

or  a  concert,  or  to  houses  from  which  invitations 
came.  The  evenings  were  enchantingly  new  to 
her;  less  so,  perhaps,  when  they  dined  at  the 
solemn  houses  than  when  a  hansom  deposited 
them  at  the  doors  of  a  restaurant  and  her  hus- 
band's pocket  contained  the  tickets  for  a  couple 
of  stalls.  She  was  conscious  that  she  owed  him 
more  than  she  could  ever  repay;  and  though  she 
had  casually  informed  him  that  she  had  begun 
a  drama,  she  did  not  discuss  the  subject  with 
him  at  any  length.  To  dwell  upon  those  eter- 
nal ambitions  of  hers  was  to  remind  him  that 
she  had  said  she  would  be  dissatisfied,  and  he 
deserved  something  different  from  that;  he  de- 
served to  forget  it,  to  be  told  that  she  had  not 
an  ungratified  wish!  She  felt  ungrateful  to  re- 
alise that  such  a  statement  would  be  an  exag- 
geration. 

In  the  November  following  the  wedding  it 
was  seen  that  "Her  Majesty  had  been  pleased, 
on  the  recommendation  of  the  Lord  Chancellor, 
to  approve  the  name  of  George  Langdale  Heriot 
to  the  rank  of  Queen's  Counsel,"  and  Heriot 
soon  found  reason  to  congratulate  himself  on 
his  step.  A  man  may  earn  a  large  income  as  a 
junior,  and  find  himself  in  receipt  of  a  very  poor 
one  as  a  leader.  There  is  an  instance  cited  in 
the  Inns  of  Court  of  a  stuff-gownsman,  making 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  87 

eight  thousand  a  year,  whose  income  fell,  when 
he  took  silk,  to  three  hundred.  But  Heriot's 
practice  did  not  decline.  Few  men  at  the  Bar 
could  handle  a  jury  better,  or  showed  greater 
address  in  their  dealings  with  the  Bench.  He 
knew  instinctively  the  moment  when  that  small 
concession  was  advisable,  when  the  attitude  of 
uncompromising  rigour  would  be  fatal  to  his 
case.  He  had  his  tricks  in  court:  the  least  af- 
fected of  men  out  of  it,  in  court  he  had  his  tricks. 
Counsel  acquire  them  inevitably,  and  one  of 
Heriot's  had  been  a  favourite  device  of  Ballan- 
tyne's :  in  cross-examination  he  looked  at  the  wit- 
ness scarcely  at  all,  but  kept  his  face  turned  to 
the  jury-box.  Why  this  should  be  persuasive  is 
a  mystery  that  no  barrister  can  explain,  but  its 
effectiveness  is  undeniable.  Nevertheless,  he 
was  essentially  sound.  As  he  had  been  known 
as  "a  safe  man"  while  a  junior,  so,  now  that  he 
had  taken  silk,  he  was  believed  in  as  a  leader. 
The  figures  on  the  briefs  swelled  enormously; 
his  services  were  more  and  more  in  demand. 
Then  by-and-by  there  came  a  criminal  case  that 
was  discussed  day  by  day  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  kingdom — in  drawing-rooms 
and  back  parlours,  in  clubs  and  suburban  trains, 
and  Heriot  was  for  the  Defence.  The  Kensing- 
ton study  had  held  him  until  dawn  during  weeks, 


88  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

for  he  had  to  break  down  medical  evidence.  And 
on  the  last  day  he  spoke  for  five  hours,  while  the 
reporters'  pens  flew,  and  the  prisoner  swayed  in 
the  dock;  and  the  verdict  returned  was  "Not 
Guilty." 

When  he  unrobed  and  left  the  court,  George 
Heriot  walked  into  the  street  the  man  of  the 
hour;  and  he  drove  home  to  Mamie,  who  kissed 
him  as  she  might  have  kissed  her  father. 

He  adored  his  wife,  and  his  wife  felt  affection 
for  him.  But  the  claims  of  his  profession  left 
her  to  her  own  resources;  and  she  had  no  child. 


CHAPTER  VII 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHEN  they  had  been  married  three  years  she 
knew  many  hours  of  boredom.  She  could  not 
disguise  from  herself  that  she  found  the  life  that 
she  led  more  and  more  unsatisfying — that  lux- 
ury and  a  devoted  husband,  who  was  in  court 
during  the  day,  and  often  in  his  study  half  the 
night,  were  not  all  that  she  had  craved  for;  that 
her  environment  was  philistine,  depressing,  dull! 

And  she  lectured  herself  and  said  that  the 
fault  was  her  own,  and  that  it  was  a  very  much 
better  environment  than  her  abilities  entitled 
her  to.  She  recited  all  the  moral  precepts  that 
a  third  person  might  have  uttered;  and  the  dis- 
satisfaction remained. 

To  write  plays  ceases  to  be  an  attractive  occu- 
pation when  they  are  never  produced.  She  had 
written  several  plays  by  this  time,  and  submitted 
them,  more  or  less  judiciously,  to  several  West 
End  theatres.  There  had  even  been  an  instance 
of  a  manager  returning  a  manuscript  in  response 
to  her  fourth  application  for  it.  But  she  was  no 
nearer  to  success,  or  to  an  artistic  circle. 

91 


92  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

A  career  at  the  Bar  is  not  all  causes  celebres, 
and  the  details  of  Heriot's  briefs  were  rarely 
enthralling  to  her  mind,  even  when  he  discussed 
them  with  her;  and  when  he  came  into  the  draw- 
ing-room he  did  not  want  to  discuss  his  briefs. 
He  wanted  to  talk  trifles,  just  as  he  preferred 
to  see  a  musical  comedy  or  a  farce  when  they 
went  out.  Nor  did  he  press  her  for  particulars 
of  her  own  pursuits  during  his  absence.  She 
never  sighed  over  him,  and  as  she  appeared  to 
be  cheerful,  he  thought  she  was  contented.  That 
such  allusions  to  her  literary  work  as  she  made 
were  careless,  he  took  to  mean  that  she  had 
gradually  acquired  staider  views.  Once  he  per- 
ceived that  it  was  perhaps  quieter  for  her  than 
for  most  women,  for  she  had  no  intimate  ac- 
quaintances; but  then  she  had  never  been  used 
to  any!  There  were  her  books,  and  her  music 
and  her  shopping — no,  he  did  not  think  she  could 
be  bored.  Besides,  her  manner  at  dinner  was 
always  direct  evidence  to  the  contrary! 

She  was  now  twenty-five  years  old,  and  the 
Kensington  flat,  and  abundant  means  had  lost 
their  novelty.  She  was  never  moved  by  a  clever 
novel  without  detesting  her  own  obscurity ;  never 
looked  at  the  window  of  the  Stereoscopic  Com- 
pany without  a  passion  of  envy  for  the  success- 
ful artists;  never  accompanied  Heriot  to  the 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  93 

solemn  houses  without  yearning  for  a  passport 
to  Upper  Bohemia  instead.  She  was  twenty-five 
years  old,  and  marriage,  without  having  fulfilled 
the  demands  of  her  temperament,  had  developed 
her  sensibilities.  It  was  at  this  period  that  she 
met  Lucas  Field. 

If  her  existence  had  been  a  story,  nothing 
could  have  surprised  her  less  than  such  a  meet- 
ing. It  would  have  been  at  thic  juncture  pre- 
cisely that  she  looked  for  the  arrival  of  an  artist, 
and  Lucas  Field  would  probably  have  been  a 
brilliant  young  man  who  wore  his  hair  long  and 
wrote  decadent  verse.  The  trite  in  fiction  is 
often  very  astonishing  in  one's  own  life,  how- 
ever, and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  found  their 
introduction  an  event,  and  foresaw  nothing  at 
all. 

Lucas  Field  was  naturally  well  known  to  her 
by  reputation — so  well  known  that  when  the  hos- 
tess brought  "Mr.  Field"  across  to  her,  Mamie 
never  dreamed  of  identifying  him  with  the 
dramatist.  She  had  long  since  ceased  to  expect 
to  meet  anybody  congenial  at  these  parties,  and 
the  fish  had  been  reached  before  she  discovered 
who  it  really  was  who  had  taken  her  down. 

Field  was  finding  it  a  trifle  dreary  himself. 
He  had  not  been  bred  in  the  vicinity  of  the  foot- 
lights— his  father  had  been  a  physician,  and  his 


94  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

mother  the  daughter  of  a  Lincolnshire  parson— 
but  he  had  drifted  into  dramatic  literature  when 
he  came  down  from  Oxford,  and  the  atmosphere 
of  the  artistic  world  had  become  essential  to  him 
by  now.  Portman  Square,  though  he  admitted 
its  desirability,  and  would  have  been  mortified 
if  it  had  been  denied  to  him,  invariably  oppressed 
him  a  shade  when  he  entered  it.  He  was  at  the 
present  time  foretasting  hell  in  the  fruitless  en- 
deavour to  devise  a  scenario  for  his  next  play, 
and  he  had  looked  at  Mamie  with  a  little  interest 
as  he  was  conducted  across  the  drawing-room.  A 
beautiful  woman  has  always  an  air  of  sugges- 
tion; she  is  a  beginning,  a  "heroine"  without  a 
plot.  Regarded  from  the  easel  she  is  all-suffic- 
ing— contemplated  from  the  desk,  she  is  illusive. 
After  you  have  admired  the  tendrils  of  hair  at 
the  nape  of  her  neck,  you  realise  with  despond- 
ence that  she  takes  you  no  farther  than  if  she 
had  been  plain. 

Field  had  realised  that  she  left  him  in  the  lurch 
before  his  soup  plate  had  been  removed.  Pres- 
ently he  inquired  if  she  was  fond  of  the  theatre. 

"Please  don't  say  'yes'  from  politeness,"  he 
added. 

"Why  should  I?" 

She  had  gathered  the  reason  in  the  next  mo- 
ment, and  her  eyes  lit  with  eagerness.  He  had 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  95 

a  momentary  terror  that  she  was  going  to  be 
commonplace. 

"I  couldn't  dream  that  it  was  you — here!"  she 
said  apologetically. 

"Isn't  a  poor  playwright  respectable?"  he 
asked. 

There  was  an  instant  in  which  she  felt  that  on 
her  answer  depended  the  justification  of  her  soul. 
She  said  afterwards  that  she  could  have  "fallen 
round  an  epigram's  neck." 

"I  should  think  the  poor  playwright  must  be 
very  dull,"  she  replied. 

This  was  adequate,  however,  and  better  than 
his  own  response,  which  was  of  necessity  con- 
ventional. 

"I  have  seen  your  new  comedy,"  she  con- 
tinued. 

"I  hope  it  pleased  you?" 

"I  admired  it  immensely — like  everyone  else. 
It  is  a  great  success,  isn't  it?" 

"The  theatre  is  very  full  every  night,"  he  said 
deprecatingly. 

"Then  it  is  a  success!" 

"Does  that  follow?" 

"You  are  not  satisfied  with  it — it  falls  short 
of  what  you  meant?  I  shouldn't  have  supposed 
that;  it  seemed  to  me  entirely  clear!" 

"That  I  had  a  theory?    Really?    Perhaps  I 


96  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

have  not  failed  so  badly  as  I  thought."  He  did 
not  think  he  had  failed  at  all,  but  this  sort  of 
thing  was  his  innocent  weakness. 

"Miss  Millington  is  almost  perfect  as  'Daisy,' 
isn't  she?" 

"  'Almost?'     Where  do  you  find  her  weak?" 

She  blushed. 

"She  struck  me — of  course  I  am  no  authority 
— as  not  quite  fulfilling  your  idea  in  the  first 
act — when  she  accepted  the  Captain.  I  thought 
perhaps  she  was  too  responsible  there — too 
grown  up." 

"There  isn't  a  woman  in  London  who  could 
play  'Daisy,'  "  said  Field  savagely.  "In  other 
words,  you  think  she  wrecked  the  piece?" 

"Oh  no,  indeed!" 

"If  'Daisy'  isn't  a  child  when  she  marries,  the 
play  has  no  meaning,  no  sense.  That  is  why  the 
character  was  so  difficult  to  cast — in  the  first  act 
she  must  be  a  school-girl,  and  in  the  others  an 
emotional  woman." 

"Perhaps  I  said  too  much." 

"You  are  a  critic,  Mrs.  Heriot." 

"Oh,  merely " 

"Merely?" 

"Merely  very  much  interested  in  the  stage." 

"To  be  interested  in  the  stage  is  very  ordi- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  97 

nary;  to  be  a  judge  of  it  is  rather  rare.  No,  you 
didn't  say  too  much:  Miss  Millington  doesn't 
fulfil  my  idea  when  she  accepts  'Captain  Ar- 
minger.'  And  to  be  frank,  /  haven't  fulfilled 
Miss  Millington's  idea  of  a  consistent  part." 

"I  can  understand,"  said  Mamie,  "that  the 
great  drawback  to  writing  for  the  stage  is  that 
one  depends  so  largely  on  one's  interpreters.  A 
novelist  succeeds  or  fails  by  himself,  but  a 
dramatist— 

"A  dramatist  is  the  most  miserable  of  created 
beings,"  said  Field,  "if  he  happens  to  be  an 
artist." 

"I  can  hardly  credit  that.  I  can't  credit  any- 
body being  miserable  who  is  an  artist."  (He 
laughed.  It  was  not  polite,  but  he  couldn't  help 
it.)  "Though  I  can  understand  his  having 
moods  of  the  most  frightful  depression!"  she 
added. 

"Oh,  you  can  understand  that?" 

"Quite.  Would  he  be  an  artist  if  he  didn't 
have  them!" 

"May  I  ask  if  you  write  yourself?" 

"N — no,"  she  murmured. 

"Does  that  mean  'yes?'  " 

"It  means  'only  for  my  own  amusement.' ' 

"The  writer   who   only   writes   for   his   own 


98  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

amusement  is  mythical,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Field. 
"One  often  hears  of  him,  but  he  doesn't  bear 
investigation.  You  don't  write  plays?" 

"No— I  try  to!" 

He  regarded  her  a  little  cynically. 

"I  thought  ladies  generally  wrote  novels?" 

"I  wish  to  be  original,  you  see." 

"Do  you  send  them  anywhere?" 

"Oh,  yes;  I  send  them;  I  suppose  I  always 
shall!" 

"You're  really  in  earnest  then?  You're  not 
discouraged?" 

"I'm  earnest,  and  discouraged,  too.  .  .  .  Is  it 
impertinent  to  ask  if  you  had  experiences  like 
mine  when  you  were  younger?" 

"I  wrote  plays  for  ten  years  before  I  passed 
through  a  stage-door — one  must  expect  to  work 
for  years  before  one  is  produced.  .  .  .  Of 
course,  one  may  work  all  one's  life,  and  not  be 
produced  then!" 

"It  depends  how  clever  one  is,  or  whether  one 
is  clever  at  all?" 

"It  depends  on  a  good  many  things.  It  de- 
pends sometimes  on  advice." 

If  she  had  been  less  lovely,  he  would  not  have 
said  this,  and  he  knew  it;  if  she  had  not  been 
Mrs.  Heriot,  he  would  not  have  said  it  either. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  99 

The  average  woman  who  "wants  a  literary  man's 
advice"  is  the  bane  of  his  existence,  and  Field 
was,  not  only  without  sympathy  for  the  tyro  as 
a  rule — he  was  inclined  to  disparage  the  ma- 
jority of  his  colleagues.  He  was  clever,  and 
was  aware  of  it;  he  occupied  a  prominent  posi- 
tion. He  had  arrived  at  the  point  when  he  could 
dare  to  be  psychological.  "It  depends  some- 
times on  advice,"  he  said.  And  the  wife  of 
George  Heriot,  Q.C.,  murmured:  "Unfortu- 
nately, I  have  nobody  to  advise  me!" 

Even  as  it  was,  he  regretted  it  when  he  took 
his  leave;  and  the  manuscript  that  he  had  of- 
fered to  read  lay  in  his  study  for  three  weeks 
before  he  opened  it.  He  picked  it  up  one  night, 
remembering  that  the  writer  had  been  very 
beautiful.  The  reading  inspired  him  with  a  de- 
sire to  see  her  again.  That  the  play  was  full 
of  faults  goes  without  saying,  but  it  was  uncon- 
ventional, and  there  was  character  in  it.  He 
recollected  that  she  had  interested  him  while 
they  talked  after  dinner  on  a  couch  by  the  piano ; 
and,  as  her  work  was  promising,  he  wrote,  vol- 
unteering to  point  out  in  an  interview,  if  she 
liked,  those  errors  in  technique  which  it  would 
take  too  long  to  explain  by  letter.  It  cannot  be 
made  too  clear  that  if  she  had  sent  him  a  work 


100  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

of  genius  and  had  been  plain  Miss  Smith  in  a 
home-made  blouse,  he  would  have  done  nothing 
of  the  sort.  He  called  upon  her  with  no  idea 
that  his  hints  would  make  a  dramatist  of  her, 
nor  did  he  care  in  the  slightest  degree  whether 
they  did,  or  did  not.  She  was  a  singularly  lovely 
woman,  and  as  her  drama  had  not  been  stupid 
—  stupidity  would  have  repelled  him  —  he 
thought  a  tete-a-tete  with  her  would  be  agree- 
able. 

To  Mamie,  however,  the  afternoon  when  he 
sat  sipping  tea  in  her  drawing-room,  like  an  or- 
dinary mortal,  was  the  day  of  her  life.  She 
told  him  that  she  had  once  hoped  to  be  an  actress, 
and  believed  that  the  avowal  would  advance  her 
in  his  esteem.  He  answered  that  he  should  not 
be  astonished  if  she  had  the  histrionic  gift;  and 
was  secretly  disenchanted  a  shade  by  what  he 
felt  to  be  banal.  Then  they  discussed  his  own 
work,  and  he  found  her  appreciation  remarkably 
intelligent.  To  talk  about  himself  to  a  woman, 
who  listened  with  exquisite  eyes  fixed  upon  his 
face,  was  very  gratifying  to  him.  Field  had 
rarely  spent  a  pleasanter  hour.  It  is  not  inti- 
mated that  he  was  a  vain  puppy — he  was  not  a 
puppy  at  all.  He  had  half  unconsciously  felt 
the  want  of  a  sympathetic  confidant  for  a  long 
while,  though,  and  albeit  he  did  not  instantane- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  101 

ously  realise  that  Mrs.  Heriot  filled  the  void,  he 
walked  back  to  his  chambers  with  exhilaration. 

He  realised  it  by  degrees.  He  had  never 
married.  He  had  avoided  matrimony  till  he  was 
thirty  because  he  could  not  afford  it;  and  dur- 
ing the  last  decade  he  had  escaped  it  because  he 
had  not  met  a  woman  whom  he  desired  suffi- 
ciently to  pay  such  a  price.  When  he  had  seen 
Mamie  several  times — and  in  the  circumstances 
it  was  not  difficult  to  invent  reasons  for  seeing 
her — he  wondered  whether  he  would  have  pro- 
posed to  her  if  she  had  been  single. 

Heriot  was  very  pleased  to  have  him  dine  with 
them;  and  he  was  not  ignorant  that  during  the 
next  few  months  Field  often  dropped  in  about 
five  o'clock.  Mamie  concealed  nothing — know- 
ingly— and  the  subject  of  her  writing  was  re- 
vived now.  She  told  George  that  Mr.  Field 
thought  she  had  ability.  She  repeated  his  criti- 
cisms ;  frankly  admired  his  talent ;  confessed  that 
she  was  proud  to  have  him  on  her  visiting  list — 
and  fell  in  love  with  him  without  either  analys- 
ing her  feelings,  or  perceiving  her  risk. 

And  while  Mrs.  Heriot  fell  in  love  with  him, 
Lucas  Field  was  not  blind.  He  saw  a  great  deal 
more  than  she  saw  herself — he  saw,  not  only 
the  influence  he  exercised  over  her,  but  that  she 
had  moped  before  he  appeared.  He  did  not 


102  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

misread  her;  he  was  conscious  that  she  would 
never  take  a  lover  from  caprice — that  she  was 
the  last  woman  in  the  world  to  sin  lightly,  or 
under  the  rose.  He  saw  that,  if  he  yielded  to 
the  temptation  that  had  begun  to  assail  him,  he 
must  be  prepared  to  ask  her  to  live  with  him 
openly.  But  he  asked  himself  whether  it  was 
impossible  that  he  could  prevail  on  her  to  do 
that,  had  he  the  mind  to  do  so — whether  she  was 
so  impregnable  as  she  believed. 

He  was  by  this  time  fascinated  by  her.  His 
happiest  afternoons  were  spent  in  South  Ken- 
sington, advancing  his  theories,  and  talking  of 
his  latest  scenes ;  nor  was  it  a  lie  when  he  averred 
that  she  assisted  him.  To  be  an  artist  it  is  not 
necessary  to  be  able  to  produce,  and  if  her  own 
attempts  had  been  infinitely  more  futile  than 
they  were,  she  might  still  have  expressed  opin- 
ions that  were  of  service  to  another.  Many  of 
her  views  were  impracticable,  naturally.  Psy- 
chological as  his  tendencies  were,  he  was  a 
dramatist,  and  he  could  not  snap  his  ringers  at 
the  laws  imposed  by  the  footlights,  though  he 
might  affect  to  deride  them  in  his  confidences. 
The  only  dramatist  alive  was  Ibsen,  he  said ;  yet 
he  did  not  model  himself  on  Ibsen,  albeit  he 
was  delighted  when  she  exclaimed,  "How  Ib- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  103 

senish  that  is  I"  Many  of  her  views  were  imprac- 
ticable, because  she  was  ignorant  about  the 
stage;  but  many  were  intensely  stimulating. 
The  more  he  was  with  her,  the  less  he  doubted 
her  worthiness  of  sinning  for  his  sake.  He  was 
so  different  from  the  ordinary  dramatic  author! 
On  the  ordinary  dramatic  author,  with  no  ideas 
beyond  "curtains"  and  "fees,"  she  would  have 
been  thrown  away.  He  did  not  wish  to  be  asso- 
ciated with  a  scandal — it  would  certainly  be  un- 
pleasant— but  she  dominated  him,  there  was  no 
disguising  the  fact.  And  he  would  be  very  good 
to  her;  he  would  marry  her.  She  was  adorable! 
His  meditations  had  not  progressed  so  far 
without  the  girl's  eyes  being  opened  to  her  weak- 
ness; and  now  she  hated  herself  more  bitterly 
than  she  had  hated  the  tedium  of  her  life.  She 
knew  that  she  loved  him.  She  was  wretched 
when  he  was  not  with  her,  and  ashamed  when 
he  was  there.  She  wandered  about  the  flat  in 
her  solitude,  frightened  as  she  realised  what  an 
awful  thing  had  come  to  her.  But  she  was  drunk 
—intoxicated  by  the  force  of  the  guilty  love,  and 
by  the  thought  that  such  a  man  as  Lucas  Field 
could  be  in  love  with  her.  She  revered  him  for 
not  having  told  her  of  the  feelings  that  she  in- 
spired. Her  courage  was  sustained  by  the  belief 


104  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

that  he  did  not  divine  her  own — that  she  would 
succeed  in  stamping  them  out  without  his  dream- 
ing of  the  danger  she  had  run.  Yet  she  was 
"drunk";  and  one  afternoon  the  climax  was 
reached — he  implored  her  to  go  away  with  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IF  a  woman  sins,  and  the  chronicler  of  her  sin 
desires  to  excuse  the  woman,  her  throes  and  her 
struggles,  her  pangs  and  her  prayers  always 
occupy  at  least  three  chapters.  If  one  does  not 
seek  to  excuse  her,  the  fact  of  her  fall  may  as 
well  be  stated  in  the  fewest  possible  words. 
Mamie  did  struggle — she  struggled  for  a  long 
time — but  in  the  end  she  was  just  as  guilty  as 
if  she  hadn't  shed  a  tear.  Field's  pertinacity  and 
passion  wore  her  resistance  out  at  last.  Theirs 
was  to  be  the  ideal  union,  and  of  course  he  cited 
famous  cases  where  the  man  and  woman  de- 
signed for  each  other  by  Heaven  had  met  only 
after  one  of  them  had  blundered.  He  did  not 
explain  why  Heaven  had  permitted  the  blun- 
ders, after  being  at  the  pains  to  design  kindred 
souls  for  each  other's  ecstasy;  but  there  are 
things  that  even  the  youngest  curate  cannot  ex- 
plain. He  insisted  that  she  would  never  regret 
her  step;  he  declared  that,  with  himself  for  her 
husband,  she  would  become  celebrated.  'Art, 
love,  joy,  all  might  be  hers  at  a  word.  And  she 

spoke  it. 

107 


108  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

When  Heriot  came  in  one  evening,  Mamie 
was  not  there,  and  he  wondered  what  had  be- 
come of  her,  for  at  this  hour  she  was  always  at 
home.  But  he  had  not  a  suspicion  of  evil — he 
was  as  far  from  being  prepared  for  the  blow 
that  was  in  store  as  if  Field  had  never  crossed 
their  path.  He  had  let  himself  in  with  his  latch- 
key, and  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour  it  occurred 
to  him  that  she  might  be  already  in  the  dining- 
room.  When  he  entered  it,  he  noted  with  sur- 
prise that  the  table  was  laid  only  for  one. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Heriot?"  he  said  to  the  serv- 
ant who  appeared  in  response  to  his  ring. 

"Mrs.  Heriot  has  gone  out  of  town,  sir." 

"Out  of  town!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"Mrs.  Heriot  left  a  note  for  you,  sir,  to  ex- 
plain. There  it  is,  sir." 

Heriot  took  it  from  the  mantelpiece  quickly; 
but  still  he  had  no  suspicion — not  an  inkling  of 
the  truth.  He  tore  the  envelope  open  and  read, 
while  the  maid  waited  respectfully  by  the  door. 

"Your  mistress  has  been  called  away,"  he  said 
when  he  had  finished;  "illness!  She  will  be  gone 
some  time." 

His  back  was  to  her;  he  could  command  his 
voice,  but  his  face  was  beyond  his  control.  He 
felt  that  if  he  moved  he  would  reel,  perhaps  fall. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  109 

He  stood  motionless,  with  the  letter  open  in  his 
hand. 

"Shall  I  serve  dinner,  sir?" 

"Yes,  serve  dinner,  Odell;  I'm  quite  ready." 

When  the  door  closed,  it  was  his  opportunity 
to  gain  the  chair;  he  walked  towards  it  slowly, 
like  a  blind  man.  The  letter  that  he  held  had 
left  but  one  hope  possible — the  last  hope  of  de- 
spair— to  keep  the  matter  for  awhile  from  the 
servants'  knowledge.  As  yet  he  was  not  suffer- 
ing acutely;  indeed,  in  these  early  moments,  the 
effect  of  the  shock  was  more  physical  than  men- 
tal. There  was  a  trembling  through  his  body, 
and  his  head  felt  queerly  light — empty,  not  his 
own. 

The  maid  came  back,  and  he  forced  himself  to 
dine.  The  first  spoonfuls  of  the  soup  that  he 
took  were  but  heat,  entirely  tasteless,  to  his 
mouth,  and  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach  a  sensation 
of  sickness  rose  and  writhed  like  something  liv- 
ing. When  she  retired  once  more,  his  head  fell 
forward  on  his  arms ;  it  was  a  relief  to  rest  it  so. 
He  did  not  know  how  he  could  support  the  long 
strain  of  her  vigilance. 

By  degrees  his  stupor  began  to  pass,  as  he 
stared  at  the  vacant  place  where  his  wife  should 
have  sat;  the  dazed  brain  rallied  to  comprehen- 
sion. His  wife  was  not  there  because  she  was 


110  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

with  her  lover!  Oh,  God!  with  her  "lover  "- 
Mamie  had  given  herself  to  another  man! 
Mamie!  Mamie  had  gone  to  another  man.  His 
face  was  grey  and  distorted  now,  and  the  glass 
that  he  was  lifting  snapped  at  the  stem.  She 
had  gone.  She  was  no  longer  his  wife.  She  was 
guilty,  shameless,  denied — Mamie! 

He  rose,  an  older,  a  less  vigorous,  figure. 

"I  shall  be  busy  to-night,"  he  muttered; 
"don't  let  me  be  disturbed." 

He  went  to  his  study,  and  dropped  upon  the 
seat  before  his  desk.  Her  photograph  con- 
fronted him,  and  he  took  it  down  and  held  it 
shakenly.  How  young  she  looked!  was  there 
ever  a  face  more  pure  ?  And  Heaven  knew  that 
he  had  loved  her  as  dearly  only  an  hour  ago  as 
on  the  day  that  they  were  married !  Not  a  whim 
of  hers  had  been  refused ;  not  a  request  could  he 
recollect  that  he  had  failed  to  obey.  Yet  now 
she  was  with  a  lover!  She  smiled  in  the  likeness; 
the  eyes  that  met  his  own  were  clear  and  tender ; 
truth  was  stamped  upon  her  features.  He  re- 
called incidents  of  the  past  three  years,  incidents 
that  had  been  rich  in  the  intimacy  of  their  life. 
Surely  in  those  hours  she  had  loved  him?  That 
had  not  been  gratitude — a  sense  of  duty  merely? 
— had  she  not  loved  him  then?  He  remembered 
their  wedding-day.  How  pale  she  had  been,  how 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  111 

innocent — a  child.  Yet  now  she  was  with  a 
lover!  A  sob  convulsed  him,  and  he  nodded 
slowly  at  the  likeness  through  his  tears.  Pres- 
ently he  put  it  back ;  he  was  angered  at  his  weak- 
ness. He  had  deserved  something  better  at  her 
hands !  Pride  forbade  that  he  should  mourn  for 
her.  He  had  married  wildly,  yes,  he  should  have 
listened  to  advice;  Francis  had  warned  him. 
Perhaps  while  he  wept,  they  were  laughing  at 
him  together,  she  and  Field !  How  did  he  know 
that  it  was  Field — had  she  mentioned  his  name 
in  the  letter?  He  knew  that  it  was  Field  in- 
stinctively; he  marvelled  that  he  had  not  fore- 
seen the  danger,  and  averted  it.  How  stupid 
had  the  petitioners  in  divorce  suits  often  ap- 
peared to  him  in  his  time ! — he  had  wondered  that 
men  could  be  so  purblind — and  he  himself  had 
been  as  dense  as  any!  .  .  .  But  she  would  not 
laugh.  Ah,  guilty  as  she  was,  she  would  not 
laugh — she  was  not  so  vile  as  that !  The  clock  in 
the  room  struck  one.  He  heard  it  half  uncon- 
sciously— then  started,  and  threw  out  his  arms 
with  a  hoarse  cry.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  fired 
with  the  tortures  of  the  damned.  The  sweat 
burst  out  on  him,  and  the  veins  in  his  forehead 
swelled  like  cords.  He  was  a  temperate  man, 
at  once  by  taste  and  by  necessity,  but  now  he 
walked  to  where  the  brandy  was  kept  and  drank 


112  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

a  wine-glassful  in  gulps.  "Mamie!"  he  groaned 
again;  "Mamie!"  The  brandy  did  not  blot  the 
picture  from  his  brain;  and  he  refilled  the  glass. 
.  .  .  Nothing  would  efface  the  picture. 

He  knew  that  it  was  hopeless  to  attempt  to 
sleep,  yet  he  went  to  the  bedroom.  The  ivory 
brushes  were  gone  from  the  toilet-table — she 
had  been  able  to  think  of  brushes !  In  the  ward- 
robe the  frocks  were  fewer,  and  the  linen  was 
less;  the  jewellery  that  he  had  given  to  her  had 
been  left  behind.  All  was  orderly.  There  were 
no  traces  of  a  hurried  departure;  the  room  had 
its  usual  aspect.  He  looked  at  the  pillows. 
Against  the  one  that  had  been  hers  lay  the  bag 
of  silk  and  lace  that  contained  her  night-dress. 
Had  she  forgotten  it ;  or  was  it  that  she  had  been 
incapable  of  transferring  that?  He  picked  it  up, 
and  dropped  it  out  of  sight  in  one  of  the  drawers. 

He  did  not  go  to  bed;  he  spent  the  night  in 
an  armchair,  re-reading  the  letter,  and  thinking. 
When  the  servant  knocked  at  the  door,  he  went 
to  his  dressing-room,  and  shaved.  He  had  a 
bath,  and  breakfasted,  and  strolled  to  the  sta- 
tion. Outwardly  he  had  recovered  from  the 
blow,  and  his  clerk  who  gave  him  his  list  of  ap- 
pointments remarked  nothing  abnormal  about 
him.  In  court,  Heriot  remembered  that  Mamie 
and  he  were  to  have  dined  in  Holland  Park  that 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  113 

evening,  and  during  the  luncheon  adjournment 
he  sent  a  telegram  of  excuse.  If  anyone  had 
known  what  had  happened  to  him,  he  would 
have  been  thought  devoid  of  feeling. 

He  had  scarcely  re-entered  the  flat  when  Mrs. 
Baines  called.  His  first  impulse  was  to  decline 
to  see  her;  but  he  told  the  maid  to  show  her  in. 

A  glance  assured  him  that  she  was  ignorant 
of  what  had  occurred. 

"Dear  Mamie  is  away,  the  servant  tells  me," 
she  said,  simpering.  "I  hadn't  seen  her  for  such 
a  long  time  that  I  thought  I'd  look  in  to-day. 
Not  that  I  should  have  been  so  late,  but  I  missed 
my  train!  I  meant  to  come  in  and  have  a  cup 
of  tea  with  her  at  five  o'clock.  Well,  I  am  unfor- 
tunate! And  how  have  you  been  keeping,  Mr. 
Heriot?" 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I  hope  you  are  well, 
Mrs.  Baines." 

"Where  has  dear  Mamie  gone?"  she  asked. 
"Pleasuring?" 

"She  is  on  the  Continent,  I  believe.  May  I 
tell  them  to  bring  you  some  tea  now?" 

"On  the  Continent  alone?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Baines.  "Fancy!" 

"No,  she  is  not  alone,"  said  Heriot.  "You 
must  prepare  yourself  for  a  shock,  Mrs.  Baines. 
Your  niece  has  left  me." 


114.  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

She  looked  at  him  puzzled.  His  tone  was  so 
composed  that  it  seemed  to  destroy  the  signifi- 
cance of  his  words. 

"Left  you?    How  do  you  mean?" 

"She  has  gone  with  her  lover." 

"Oh,  my  Gawd!"  said  Mrs.  Baines.  .  .  . 
"Whatever  are  you  saying,  Mr.  Heriot? 
Don't!" 

"Your  niece  is  living  with  another  man.  She 
left  me  yesterday,"  he  continued  quietly.  "I 
am  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you  such  news." 

He  was  sorrier  as  he  observed  the  effect  of 
it,  but  he  could  not  soften  the  shock  for  her  by 
any  outward  participation  in  her  grief.  Since 
he  must  speak  at  all,  he  must  speak  as  he  did. 

"Oh,  to  hear  of  such  a  thing!"  she  gasped. 

"Oh,  to  think  that— well Oh,  Mr.  Heriot, 

I  can't  ...  it  can't  be  true.  Isn't  it  some  mis- 
take? Dear  Mamie  would  never  be  so  wicked, 
I'm  sure  she  wouldn't!  It's  some  awful  mistake, 
you  may  depend." 

"There's  no  mistake,  Mrs.  Baines.  My 
authority  is  your  niece  herself.  She  left  a  letter 
to  tell  me  she  was  going,  and  why." 

The  widow  moaned  feebly. 

"With  another  man?" 

He  bowed. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  115 

"Oh,  Heaven  will  punish  her,  Mr.  Heriot! 
Oh,  what  will  her  father  say — how  could  she  do 
it!  And  you — how  gentle  and  kind  to  her  you 
were  7  could  see." 

"I  did  my  best  to  make  her  happy,"  he  said; 
"evidently  I  didn't  succeed.  Is  it  necessary  for 
us  to  talk  about  it  much?  Believe  me,  you  have 
my  sympathy,  but  talking  won't  improve  mat- 
ters." 

"Oh,  but  I  can't  look  at  it  so — so  calmly,  Mr. 
Heriot!  The  disgrace!  and  so  sudden.  And  it 
isn't  for  me  to  have  your  sympathy,  I'm  sure.  I 
say  it  isn't  for  you  to  sympathise  with  me.  My 
heart  bleeds  for  you,  Mr.  Heriot." 

"You're  very  good,"  he  answered;  "but  I  don't 
know  that  a  faithless  wife  is  much  to  grieve  for 
after  all." 

"Ah,  but  you  don't  mean  that!  you  were  too 
fond  of  her  to  mean  it.  She'll  live  to  repent  it, 
you  may  be  certain — the  Lord  will  bring  it  home 
to  her.  Oh,  how  could  she  do  it!  You  don't — 
you  don't  intend  to  have  a  divorce?" 

"Naturally  I  intend  it.  What  else  do  you 
propose?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  quavered,  rocking 
herself  to  and  fro,  and  smearing  the  tears  down 
her  cheeks  with  a  forefinger  in  a  black  silk  glove ; 


116  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"but  the  disgrace!  And  all  Lavender  Street  to 
read  about  it!  Ah,  you  won't  divorce  her,  Mr. 
Heriot!  It  would  be  so  dreadful!" 

"Don't  you  want  to  see  the  man  marry  her?" 

"How  'marry  her'?"  she  asked  vaguely.  "Oh, 
I  understand!  Yes,  I  suppose  he  could  marry 
her  then,  couldn't  he?  I'm  not  a  lawyer  like 
you — I  didn't  look  so  far  ahead.  But  I  don't 
want  a  divorce." 

"Ah,  well,  I  want  it,"  he  said;  "for  my  own 
sake." 

"Then  you  don't  love  her  any  more,  Mr. 
Heriot?"  ' 

He  laughed  drearily. 

"Your  niece  has  ended  her  life  with  me  of  her 
own  accord.  I've  nothing  more  to  do  with  her." 

"Those  are  cruel  words,"  said  Mrs.  Baines; 
"those  are  cruel  words  about  a  girl  who  was 
your  lawful  wife — the  flesh  of  your  bone  in  the 
sight  of  Gawd  and  man.  You're  harder  than 
I  thought,  Mr.  Heriot;  you  don't  take  it  quite 
as  I'd  have  supposed  you'd  take  it.  ...  So 
quiet  and  stern  like!  I  think  if  you'd  loved 
her  tenderly,  you'd  have  talked  more  heart- 
broken, though  it's  not  for  me  to  judge." 

Heriot  rose. 

"I  can't  discuss  my  sentiments  with  you,  Mrs. 
Baines.  Think,  if  you  like,  that  I  didn't  care 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  117 

for  her  at  all.  At  least  my  duty  to  her  is  over; 
and  I  have  a  duty  to  myself  to-day." 

"To  cast  her  off?"  The  semi-educated  classes 
use  the  phrases  of  novelettes  habitually. 
Whether  this  is  the  reason  the  novelettes  trade 
in  the  phrases,  or  whether  the  semi-educated  ac- 
quire the  phrases  from  the  novelettes,  is  not 
clear. 

"To He  paused.  He  could  not  trust 

himself  to  speak  at  that  moment. 

"To  cast  her  off?"  repeated  Mrs.  Baines.  "Oh, 
I  don't  make  excuses  for  her — I  don't  pity  her. 
Though  she  is  my  brother's  child,  I  say  she  is 
deserving  of  whatever  befalls  her.  I  remember 
well  that  when  Dick  married  I  warned  him 
against  it;  I  said,  'She  isn't  the  wife  for  you!' 
It's  the  mother's  blood  coming  out  in  her,  though 
my  brother's  child.  But  .  .  .  What  was  I  go- 
ing to  say?  I'm  that  upset  that Oh  yes! 

I  make  no  excuses  for  her,  but  I  would  have 
liked  to  see  more  sorrow  on  your  part,  Mr. 
Heriot;  I  could  have  pitied  you  more  if  you'd 
taken  it  more  to  heart.  You  may  think  me  too 
bold,  but  it  was  ever  my  way  to  say  what  was 
in  my  mind.  I  don't  think  I'll  stop  any  longer. 
The  way  you  may  take  it  is  between  you  and 
your  Gawd,  but—  She  put  out  her  hand. 

"I  don't  think  I'll  stop." 


118  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"Good-evening,"  he  said  stonily.  "I'm  sorry 
you  can't  stay  and  dine." 

She  remembered  on  the  stairs  that  she  had  not 
inquired  who  the  man  was ;  but  she  was  too  much 
disgusted  by  Heriot's  manner  to  go  back. 


CHAPTER  IX 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEN  a  naturally  pure  woman,  who  is  not 
sustained  by  any  emancipated  views,  consents 
to  live  with  a  man  in  defiance  of  social  preju- 
dices, she  probably  obtains  as  clear  an  insight 
as  the  world  affords  into  the  enormous  difference 
that  exists  between  the  ideal  and  the  actual. 
Matrimony  does  not  illumine  the  difference  so 
vividly,  because  matrimony,  with  all  its  disillu- 
sions, leaves  her  an  unembarrassed  conscience. 
With  her  lover  such  a  woman  experiences  all  the 
prose  of  wedlock,  and  a  sting  to  boot.  A  man 
cannot  be  at  concert-pitch  all  day  long  with  his 
mistress  any  more  easily  than  with  his  wife.  She 
has  to  submit  to  bills  and  other  practical  matters 
just  as  much  with  a  smirched  reputation  as  she 
had  with  a  spotless  one.  The  romance  does  not 
wear  any  better  because  the  Marriage  Service 
is  omitted.  A  lover  is  no  less  liable  to  be  com- 
monplace than  a  husband  when  the  laundress 
knocks  the  buttons  off  his  shirts. 

Yes,  Mamie  was  infatuated  by  Field ;  she  had 
not  sinned  with  a  cool  head  simply  to  procure  a 

121 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

guide  up  Parnassus.  But  she  had  hoped  to  pick 
a  few  laurels  there  all  the  same.  She  found  her- 
self in  a  little  flat  in  the  rue  Tronchet.  They  had 
few  visitors,  and  those  who  did  come  were  men 
who  talked  a  language  that  she  did  not  under- 
stand, but  who  looked  things  that  she  understood 
only  too  well. 

The  remorse  and  humiliation  that  she  felt  was 
not  leavened  by  any  consciousness  of  advancing 
in  her  art.  Field  rather  pooh-poohed  her  art,  as 
the  months  went  by  after  the  decree  nisi  was  pro- 
nounced. He  still  discussed  his  work  with  her — 
perhaps  less  as  if  she  had  been  a  sybil,  but  still 
with  interest  in  her  ideas.  Her  own  work,  how- 
ever, bored  him  now.  He  had  no  intention  of  be- 
ing cold,  but  the  subject  seemed  puerile  to  his 
mind.  If  she  did  write  a  play  that  was  produced 
one  day,  or  if  she  didn't,  what  earthly  conse- 
quence was  it?  She  would  never  write  a  great 
one;  and  these  panting  aspirations  which  begot 
such  mediocre  results  savoured  to  him  of  a  storm 
in  a  teacup — of  a  furnace  lit  to  boil  the  kettle. 
He  was  rather  sorry  that  he  had  run  away 
with  her,  but  he  did  not  regret  it  particularly. 
Of  course  he  would  marry  her  as  soon  as  he  could 
—he  owed  her  that ;  and,  since  he  was  not  such  a 
blackguard  as  to  contemplate  deserting  her  by- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

and-by,  he  might  just  as  well  marry  her  as  not. 
The  whole  affair  had  been  a  folly  certainly.  He 
was  not  rich,  and  he  was  extravagant;  he  would 
have  done  better  to  remain  as  he  was.  Still  many 
men  envied  him.  He  trusted  fervently  she  would 
not  have  children,  though!  It  didn't  seem  likely; 
but  if  she  ever  did,  the  error  would  be  doubled. 
He  did  not  want  a  son  who  had  cause  to  be 
ashamed  of  his  mother  when  he  grew  up. 

It  was  curious  that  she  did  not  refer  more 
often  to  his  legalising  their  union.  Her  position 
pained  her,  he  could  see,  and  made  her  very  fre- 
quently a  dull  companion.  That  was  the  worst 
of  these  things!  One  paid  for  the  step  dearly 
enough  to  expect  lively  society  in  return,  and 
yet,  if  one  complained  of  mournfulness,  one 
would  be  a  brute.  He  would  write  a  drama 
some  time  or  other  to  show  that  it  was  really  the 
man  who  was  deserving  of  sympathy  in  such  an 
alliance.  It  would  be  very  original,  as  he  would 
treat  it.  The  lover  should  explain  his  situation 
to  another  woman  whom  he  had  learnt  to  love 
since,  and — well,  he  didn't  see  how  it  should  end : 
—with  the  dilemma  repeated?  And  it  didn't 
matter,  after  all,  for  nobody  would  have  the  cour- 
age to  produce  it! 

He  made  these  reflections  in  his  study.     In 


124  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

the  salon — furnished  in  accordance  with  the 
tastes  of  the  lady  who  had  sub-let  the  flat  to  them 
for  six  months — Mamie  stood  staring  down  at 
the  street.  It  was  four  o'clock,  and,  saving  for 
half  an  hour  at  luncheon,  she  had  not  seen  him 
since  ten.  For  distraction  she  could  make  her 
choice  among  some  Tauchnitz  novels,  her  music, 
and  a  walk.  Excepting  that  the  room  was  taw- 
dry and  ill-ventilated,  and  that  she  had  lost  her 
reputation,  it  was  not  unlike  her  life  in  South 
Kensington. 

In  her  pocket  was  a  letter  from  her  father— 
the  most  difficult  letter  that  it  had  ever  fallen  to 
Dick  Cheriton's  lot  to  compose.  Theoretically 
he  thought  social  prejudices  absurd — as  became 
an  artist  to  whom  God  had  given  his  soul — and 
he  had  often  insisted  on  their  ineptitude.  In  the 
case  of  his  own  daughter,  however,  he  would  have 
preferred  to  see  them  treated  with  respect. 
There  was  a  likeness  to  Lucas  Field  here.  Field 
also  dwelt  on  the  hill-top,  but  he  wanted  his  son, 
if  he  ever  had  one,  to  boast  a  stainless  mother. 
Cheriton  had  not  indited  curses,  like  the  fathers 
in  melodrama,  and  the  people  who  have  "found 
religion;"  only  parents  in  melodrama,  and  some 
"Christians"  who  go  to  church  twice  every  Sun- 
day, are  infamous  enough  to  curse  their  children; 
he  had  told  her  that  if  she  found  herself  for- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  125 

saken,  she  was  to  cable  for  her  passage-money 
back  to  Duluth.  But  that  he  was  ashamed  and 
broken  by  what  she  had  done,  he  had  not  at- 
tempted to  conceal;  and  as  she  stood  there,  gaz- 
ing down  on  the  rue  Tronchet,  Mamie  was  re- 
calling the  confession  to  which  this  was  an  an- 
swer. Phrases  that  she  had  used  came  back  to 
her: — "I  have  done  my  best,  but  my  love  was 
too  strong  for  me;"  "Wicked  as  it  may  be  to 
say  it,  I  know  that,  even  in  my  guilt,  I  shall 
always  be  happy.  I  met  the  right  man  too  late, 
but  I  am  so  young — I  could  not  suffer  all  my 
life  without  him.  Forgive  me  if  you  can."  Had 
she — it  was  a  horrible  thought — had  she  been 
mistaken?  Had  she  blundered  more  terribly 
than  when  she  married  ?  For,  unless  her  prophe- 
cies of  joy  to  the  brim  were  fulfilled — unless  her 
measure  of  thanksgiving  overflowed — the  blun- 
der was  more  terrible,  infinitely  more  terrible: 
she  was  a  gambler  who  had  staked  her  soul,  in 
her  conviction  of  success. 

The  question  was  one  that  she  had  asked  her- 
self many  times  before,  without  daring  to  hear 
the  answer;  but  that  the  answer  was  in  her  heart, 
though  she  shrank  from  acknowledging  it,  might 
be  seen  in  her  expression,  in  her  every  pose;  it 
might  be  seen  now,  as  she  drooped  by  the  win- 
dow. She  sighed,  and  sat  down,  and  shivered. 


126  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

Yes,  she  knew  it — she  had  thrown  away  the  sub- 
stance for  the  shadow;  she  could  deceive  herself 
no  longer.  Lucas  Field  was  not  so  poetical  a 
personality  as  she  had  imagined;  guilt  had  no 
glamour;  her  devotion  had  been  a  flash  in  the 
pan — a  madness  that  had  burned  itself  out.  She 
had  no  right  to  blame  her  lover  for  that ;  only,  the 
prospect  of  marriage  with  him  filled  her  with  no 
elation;  it  inspired  misgiving  rather.  If  she  had 
made  a  blunder,  would  it  improve  matters  to 
perpetuate  it?  He  was  considerate  to  her,  he 
spared  her  all  the  ignominy  that  was  possible; 
but  instinctively  she  was  aware  that,  if  they 
parted,  he  would  never  miss  her  as  her  husband 
had  done.  In  his  life  she  would  never  make  a 
hole!  She  guessed  the  depth  of  Heriot's  love 
better  now  that  she  had  obtained  a  smaller  one 
as  plummet.  Between  the  manner  of  the  man 
who  was  not  particularly  sorry  to  have  run  away 
with  her,  and  his  whose  pride  she  had  been,  the 
difference  was  tremendous  to  a  woman  whose 
position  was  calculated  to  develop  her  natural 
sensitiveness  to  the  point  of  a  disease. 

Should  she  marry  Lucas  or  not  ?  Hitherto  she 
had  merely  avoided  the  query ;  now  she  trembled 
before  it.  Experience  said,  "Yes";  something 
within  her  said,  "No."  The  decree  would  be 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  127 

made  absolute  in  two  months'  time.  What  was 
to  become  of  her  if  they  separated?  To  Duluth 
she  could  never  go,  to  be  pointed  at  and  despised ! 
She  sighed  again. 

"Bored,  dear?"  asked  Field,  in  the  doorway. 

"I  was  thinking." 

"That  was  obvious.  Not  of  your — er — 
work?" 

"No,  not  of  my — 'er — work.' ' 

He  pulled  his  moustache  with  some  embar- 
rassment. 

"I  didn't  mean  anything  derogatory  to  it." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  she  said  wearily;  "don't — it 
doesn't  matter.  You  can't  think  much  less  of  it 
than  I  am  beginning  to  do  myself.  You  can't 
take  much  less  interest  in  it." 

"You  are  unjust,"  said  Field. 

"I  am  moped.  Take  me  out.  Take  me  out 
of  myself  if  you  can,  but  take  me  out  of  doors 
at  any  rate!  I  am  yearning  to  be  in  a  crowd." 

"We  might  go  to  a  theatre  to-night,"  he  said; 
"would  you  like  to?" 

"It  doesn't  amuse  me  very  much;  I  don't 
understand  what  they  say.  Still  it  would  be 
something.  But  I  want  to  go  out  now,  for  a 
walk.  I  don't  like  walking  here  alone;  can't 
you  come  with  me?" 


128  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't.  You  forget  I  promised 
an  interview  to  that  paper  this  afternoon.  I 
expect  the  fellow  here  any  moment." 

"You  promised  it?"  she  exclaimed,  with  sur- 
prise. "Why,  I  thought  you  said  that  the  paper 
was  a  'rag'  and  that  you  wouldn't  dream  of  con- 
senting?" 

"After  all,  one  must  be  courteous;  I  changed 
my  mind.  There's  some  talk  of  translating  A 
Clever  Man's  Son  into  French.  An  interview 
just  now  would  be  good  policy." 

"You  are  going  to  be  adapted?  A  Clever 
Man's  Sonr 

"Translated,"  he  said.  "I  may  adapt;  I  am 
— translated." 

She  smiled,  but  perceived  almost  at  the  same 
instant  that  she  had  not  been  intended  to  do 
so  and  that  he  had  said  it  seriously. 

"I  make  a  very  good  interview,"  he  continued, 
lighting  a  cigarette;  "I  daresay  you've  noticed 
it.  I  never  count  an  epigram  or  two  wasted, 
though  they  do  go  into  another  chap's  copy. 
That's  where  many  men  make  a  mistake ;  or  very 
likely  they  can't  invent  the  epigrams.  Anyhow, 
they  don't!  The  average  interview  is  as  dull  as 
the  average  play.  People  think  it's  the  journal- 
ists' fault,  but  it  isn't.  It's  the  fault  of  the 
deadly  dull  dogs  who've  got  nothing  to  tell  them. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  129 

I  ought  to  have  gone  a  good  deal  farther  than  I 
have:  I've  the  two  essential  qualities  for  suc- 
cess— I'm  an  artist  and  a  showman." 

"Don't!"  she  murmured;  "don't!" 

He  laughed  gaily. 

"I'm  perfectly  frank;  I  admit  the  necessities 
of  life — I've  told  you  so  before.  My  mind  never 
works  so  rapidly  as  it  does  in  prospect  of  a  good 
advertisement.  There  the  fellow  is,  I  expect!" 
he  added,  as  the  bell  rang.  "The  study  is  quite 
in  disorder  for  him,  and  there  are  a  bunch  of 
Parma  violets  and  a  flask  of  maraschino  on  the 
desk.  I'm  going  to  remark  that  maraschino  and 
the  scent  of  violets  are  indispensable  to  me  when 
I  work.  He  won't  believe  it,  unless  he  is  very 
young,  but  he'll  be  immeasurably  obliged;  that 
sort  of  thing  looks  well  in  an  interview.  Violets 
and  maraschino  are  a  graceful  combination,  I 
think." 

She  did  not  reply ;  she  sat  pale  and  chagrined. 
He  was  renowned  enough,  and  more  than  tal- 
ented enough  to  dispense  with  these  stage-tricks 
in  the  library.  She  knew  it,  and  he  knew  it,  but 
he  could  not  help  them.  Awhile  ago  they  had 
caused  her  the  crudest  pain;  now  she  was  more 
contemptuous  than  anything  else,  although  she 
was  still  galled  that  he  should  display  his  foibles 
so  candidly.  "I  am  quite  frank,"  he  had  said. 


130  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

She  found  such  "frankness"  a  milestone  on  the 
road  that  she  had  travelled. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Field,  "among  the  illu- 
sions of  a  man's  youth  is  the  belief  that,  if  he 
goes  through  life  doing  his  humble  best  in  an 
unobtrusive  way,  the  Press  will  say  what  a  jolly 
fine  fellow  he  is,  and  hold  him  up  as  a  pattern 
to  all  the  braggarts  and  poseurs  who  are  blow- 
ing their  own  trumpets,  and  scraping  on  their 
own  fiddles.  Among  the  things  he  learns  as  he 
grows  older  is  the  fact  that,  if  he  does  his  best 
in  an  unobtrusive  way,  the  Press  will  say  noth- 
ing about  him  at  all.  The  fiddle  and  the  trum- 
pet are  essential;  but  it  is  possible  to  play  them 
with  a  certain  amount  of  refinement.  It  is  even 
possible — though  a  clever  man  cannot  dispense 
with  the  fiddle  and  the  trumpet — for  the  fiddle 
and  the  trumpet  to  be  played  so  dexterously  that 
he  may  dispense  with  cleverness.  I  do  not  go 
to  such  lengths  myself " 

"You  have  no  need  to  do  so,"  she  said  coldly. 

"I  have  no  need  to  do  so — thank  you.  But  I 
can  quite  conceive  that,  say,  violets  and  mara- 
schino, worked  for  all  they  were  worth,  might 
alone  make  a  man  famous.  A  mouse  liberated 
a  lion,  and  things  smaller  than  a  mouse  have 
created  one  before  now.  The  violet  in  the  hedge- 
row 'bloomed  unseen,' — or  'died  unknown,'  was 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  131 

it?  it  did  something  modest  and  unsuccessful,  I 
know.  The  violet  assiduously  paragraphed  and 
paraded  might  lead  to  fortune." 

"I  would  rather  be  obscure  and  do  honest, 
conscientious  work,"  answered  Mamie,  "than 
write  rubbish,  and  finesse  myself  into  popu- 
larity." 

"It  is  much  easier,"  he  said  tranquilly.  "To 
be  obscure  is  the  one  thing  that  is  easy  still.  You 
don't  mind  my  saying  that  I  hate  the  adjectives 
you  used,  though,  do  you?  The  words  'honest' 
and  'conscientious,'  applied  to  literature,  dearest, 
make  me  shudder.  I  am  always  afraid  that 
'wholesome'  is  coming  in  the  next  sentence." 

"Are  you  going  to  say  so  to  your  inter- 
viewer?" 

"The  remark  isn't  brilliant.  It  was  sincere, 
and  to  be  sincere  and  brilliant  at  the  same  time 
is  a  little  difficult.  .  .  .  I've  been  both,  though, 
in  the  scene  I've  just  done;  you  must  read  it, 
or  rather  I'll  read  it  to  you.  You'll  be  pleased 
with  it.  As  soon  as  the  piece  is  finished  I  must 
write  to  Erskine.  It  will  suit  the  Pall  Mall 
down  to  the  ground,  and  I  should  like  it  done 
there,  only— 

"Only  what?" 

Field  hesitated. 

"I  meant  it  for  Erskine  from  the  start.    He 


132  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

saw  the  scenario,  and  the  part  fits  him  like  a 
glove." 

"But  what  were -you  going  to  say?" 

''Well,  I  fancy  he  has  some  idea  that  a  piece 

of  mine  just  now You  understand,  with 

the  case  so  fresh  in  people's  minds!  .  .  .  Er- 
skine's  a  fool.  What  on  earth  does  the  public 
care?  Of  course  he'll  do  it  when  he  reads  the 
part  he's  got!  Only  I  know  he's  doubting 
whether  my  name'd  be  a  judicious  card  to  play 
yet  awhile." 

There  was  a  pause,  in  which  her  heart  con- 
tracted painfully. 

"I  see,"  she  rejoined,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  fidgeted  before  the  mirror,  and  glanced 
at  his  watch. 

"That  fellow  must  be  getting  impatient." 

"You  had  better  go  in  to  him,"  she  said. 

"Well,  we'll  go  to  the  Vaudeville,  or  some- 
where to-night,  Mamie — that's  arranged?" 

"Yes,  to  the  Vaudeville,  or  somewhere,"  she 
assented,  with  another  sigh. 

She  went  back  to  the  window,  and  stared  at 
the  rue  Tronchet  with  wet  eyes. 


CHAPTER  X 


CHAPTER  X 

SOME  weeks  afterwards  Field  went  to  Eng- 
land. He  did  not  take  Mamie  with  him,  for  he 
intended  to  remain  only  a  few  days,  nor  had  she 
been  at  all  desirous  of  accompanying  him.  She 
had  begun,  indeed,  to  see  that  she  did  not  know 
what  she  did  desire.  Her  life  in  Paris  oppressed 
her;  the  notion  of  Duluth  was  horrible;  and  the 
thought  of  living  with  Lucas  in  London,  where 
she  might  meet  an  acquaintance  of  Heriot's  at 
any  turn,  was  repugnant  to  an  almost  equal 
degree. 

Field  was  unexpectedly  detained  in  London. 
The  business  that  had  been  responsible  for  his 
journey  constantly  evaded  completion,  and  after 
he  had  been  gone  about  a  month  a  letter  came, 
in  which  he  mentioned  incidentally  that  he  had 
a  touch  of  influenza.  After  this  letter  a  fort- 
night went  by  without  her  hearing  from  him; 
and,  rendered  anxious  at  last,  she  wrote  to  in- 
quire if  his  silence  was  attributable  to  his  indis- 
position— if  the  latter  was  of  a  serious  nature. 

Her  mind  did  not  instantaneously  grasp  the 

135 


136  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

significance  of  the  telegram  that  she  tore  open 
a  few  hours  later.    It  ran: 

"My  nephew  dangerously  ill.  If  you  desire 
to  see  him,  better  come. — PORTEOUS." 

She  stood  gazing  at  it.  Who  had  telegraphed  ? 
Who Then  she  understood  that  it  was  Lu- 
cas that  was  meant.  Lucas  was  "dangerously 
ill!"  She  must  go  to  him.  She  must  go  at 
once!  She  was  so  staggered  by  the  suddenness 
of  the  intelligence  that  she  was  momentarily  in- 
capable of  recollecting  when  the  trains  left,  or 
how  she  should  act  in  order  to  ascertain.  All 
she  realised  was  that  this  was  Paris,  and  that 
Lucas  lay  "dangerously  ill"  in  London,  and  that 
she  had  to  reach  him.  Her  head  swam,  and  the 
little  French  that  she  knew  seemed  to  desert  her ; 
the  undertaking  looked  enormous — beset  with 
difficulties  that  were  almost  insuperable. 

The  stupidity  of  the  bonne,  for  whom  she 
pealed  the  bell,  served  to  sharpen  her  faculties 
a  trifle,  but  she  made  her  preparations  as  in  a 
dream.  When  she  found  herself  in  the  train,  it 
appeared  to  her  unreal  that  she  could  be  there. 
The  interval  had  left  no  salient  impressions  on 
her  brain,  nothing  but  a  confused  sense  of  delay. 
It  was  only  now  that  she  felt  able  to  reflect. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  137 

The  telegram  was  crumpled  in  her  pocket,  and 
she  took  it  out  and  re-read  it  agitatedly.  How 
did  this  relative  come  to  be  at  the  hotel?  Lucas 
had  scarcely  spoken  of  his  relations.  "If  you 
desire  to  see  him!"  The  import  of  those  words 
was  frightful — he  could  not  be  expected  to  re- 
cover. Her  stupefaction  rolled  away,  and  was 
succeeded  by  a  fever  of  suspense.  The  restric- 
tion of  the  compartment  was  maddening,  and 
she  looked  at  her  watch  a  dozen  times,  only  to 
find  that  not  ten  minutes  had  passed  since  she 
consulted  it  last. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  travelling 
for  at  least  two  days,  when  she  stood  outside  a 
bedroom  in  a  little  hotel  off  Bond  Street  and 
tapped  at  the  door  with  her  heart  in  her  throat. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  woman  whose  dress 
proclaimed  her  to  be  an  institution  nurse.  Field 
slept,  and  Mamie  sank  into  a  chair,  and  waited 
for  his  wakening. 

"How  is  he?"  she  asked  in  a  low  tone. 

The  nurse  shook  her  head. 

"He's  not  doing  as  well  as  we  could  wish, 
ma'am." 

"Is  Mr.  Porteous  here?" 

"Mrs.  Porteous.  She'll  be  coming  presently. 
She  lives  close  by." 

So   it  was   a  woman  who  had  telegraphed! 


138  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

Somehow  she  had  assumed  unquestioningly  that 

it  was  a  man.  "If  you  desire  to  see  him " 

Ah,  yes,  she  might  have  known  it!  An  aunt, 
who  would  be  frigid  and  contemptuous,  of 
course.  Well,  she  deserved  that,  she  would  have 
no  right  to  complain;  nor  was  it  to  be  expected 
that  Lucas's  family  should  show  her  much  con- 
sideration, though  she  could  not  perceive  that 
she  had  done  them  any  injury. 

Two  hours  passed  before  she  had  an  interview 
with  the  lady.  Mamie  was  in  the  room  that  she 
had  engaged  in  the  meanwhile.  She  had  bathed 
her  face,  and  was  making  ready  to  return  to  the 
sick-room,  when  she  was  told  that  Mrs.  Porteous 
was  inquiring  for  her. 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  she  asked.  "Our  voices 
won't  disturb  him  here." 

Mrs.  Porteous  entered  gingerly.  She  was  a 
massive  woman,  of  middle  age,  fashionably 
dressed.  Her  expression  suggested  no  grief, 
only  a  vague  fear  of  contamination.  She  had 
telegraphed  to  Paris  because  she  felt  that  it  was 
her  duty  to  do  so;  but  she  had  not  telegraphed 
until  it  was  almost  certain  that  the  patient  would 
not  rally  sufficiently  to  make  a  will. 

"You  are — er — Mrs.  Heriot?"  she  said,  re- 
garding her  curiously.  "The  doctor  thought 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  139 

that  Mr.  Field's  condition  ought  to  be  made 
known  to  you;  so  I  wired." 

"Thank  you;  it  was  very  kind." 

"The  doctor  advised  it,"  said  Mrs.  Porteous 
again,  significantly. 

"Is  he — is  there  no  hope?" 

"We  fear  not;  my  nephew  is  sinking  fast- 
it's  as  well  you  should  understand  it.     If  you 

think  it  necessary  to  remain I   see  you 

have  taken  a  room?    As — as  'Mrs.  Field,'  I  pre- 
sume?" 

"I  should  have  been  'Mrs.  Field,'  if  Lu- 
cas  " 

His  aunt  shivered. 

"There  are  things  we  need  not  discuss.  Of 
course  I'm  aware  that  you  are  living  under  my 
nephew's  name.  I  was  about  to  say  that  if  you 
think  it  necessary  to  remain  till  the  end,  I  have 
no  opposition  to  offer;  but  the  end  is  very  near 
now.  My  telegram  must  have  prepared  you? 
I  should  not  have  wired  unless " 

"I  understood,"  answered  Mamie,  "yes.  I  am 
glad  that  your  nephew  had  a  relative  near  him, 
though  your  name  was  quite  strange  to  me.  He 
never  mentioned  it." 

"Really!  Lucas  called  to  see  us  at  once.  Our 
house  is  in  the  neighbourhood." 


140  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"He  wrote  me,"  said  Mamie,  "that  he  had  a 
touch  of  influenza.  It  seems  extraordinary  that 
influenza  should  prove  so  serious?  He  was 
strong,  he  was  in  good  health " 

The  other's  air  implied  that  she  did  not  find 
it  necessary  to  discuss  this  either. 

"People  die  of  influenza,  or  the  results  of  it, 
every  year,"  she  said.  "The  doctor  will  give  you 
any  information  you  may  desire,  no  doubt.  You 
must  excuse  me — I  may  be  wanted." 

While  Field  lingered  she  never  left  his  side, 
after  Mamie's  arrival.  Men  committed  prepos- 
terous actions  on  their  death-beds,  and  though 
he  was  not  expected  to  recover  consciousness, 
there  was  the  possibility  that  he  might  do  so.  If 
an  opportunity  occurred,  his  mistress  would 
doubtless  produce  a  solicitor  and  a  provision  for 
herself  with  the  rapidity  of  a  conjuring  trick. 
As  it  was,  Mrs.  Porteous  had  small  misgivings 
but  what  he  would  die  intestate.  There  might 
not  be  much,  but  at  any  rate,  what  he  had  should 
not  swell  the  coffers  of  guilty  wives! 

Events  proved  that  her  summons  had  not  been 
precipitate,  however.  Field  spoke  at  the  last  a 
few  coherent  words,  and  took  Mamie's  hand. 
But  that  was  all.  Then  he  never  spoke  any 
more.  Even  as  she  stood  gazing  at  the  unfa- 
miliar face  on  the  pillow,  the  swiftness  of  the 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  141 

catastrophe  made  it  difficult  for  the  girl  to  re- 
alise that  all  was  over.  The  calamity  had  fallen 
on  her  like  a  thunderbolt — it  seemed  strange, 
inexplicable,  untrue.  The  last  time  but  one  that 
he  had  talked  to  her,  he  had  been  full  of  vigour, 
packing  a  portmanteau,  humming  a  tune,  allud- 
ing to  fees,  some  details  of  the  theatre,  the  pros- 
pect of  a  smooth  crossing.  And  now  he  was 
dead.  There  had  been  little  or  no  transition;  he 
was  well — he  was  dead!  The  curtain  had 
tumbled  in  the  middle  of  the  play — and  it  would 
never  go  up  any  more. 

It  was  not  till  after  the  funeral  that  she  was 
capable  of  meditating  on  the  change  that  Lucas 
Field's  death  had  wrought  in  her  life.  She  did 
not  ask  herself  whether  he  had  left  her  anything, 
or  not.  The  idea  that  he  might  have  done  so 
never  occurred  to  her,  nor  would  she  have  felt 
that  she  could  accept  his  bequest  if  he  had  made 
one.  She  perceived  that  she  had  nobody  to  turn 
to  but  her  father,  and  to  him  she  cabled. 

Cheriton  replied  by  two  questions:  What  was 
Field's  will?  And  would  she  like  to  return  to 
Duluth?  To  the  second  she  made  a  definite 
answer.  "Impossible;  pray  don't  ask  me."  And 
then  there  was  an  interval  of  correspondence. 

While  Mrs.  Porteous  rejoiced  to  find  that  her 
confidence  was  justified  and  that  her  nephew 


142  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

had  died  intestate,  Mamie  was  contemplating 
the  choice  of  swallowing  her  repugnance  to  go- 
ing back  to  America,  or  of  living  with  Mrs. 
Baines.  Cheriton  had  written  to  them  both,  and 
that  one  course  or  the  other  should  be  adopted 
he  was  insistent.  Mamie  need  not  live  in  Lav- 
ender Street ;  Mrs.  Baines  might  make  her  home 
in  another  neighbourhood,  where  they  would  be 
strangers.  But  that  the  girl  should  remain  alone 
in  England  was  out  of  the  question.  Which  line 
of  conduct  did  she  prefer? 

She  could  not  decide  immediately.  Both 
proposals  distressed  her.  On  the  whole,  per- 
haps, the  lesser  evil  was  to  resign  herself  to  her 
Aunt  Lydia  if,  as  her  father  declared,  her  aunt 
was  willing  to  receive  her.  Mrs.  Baines,  at  any 
rate,  was  but  one,  while  in  Duluth  half  the  pop- 
ulation would  be  acquainted  with  her  story. 

But  ims  her  Aunt  Lydia  willing? — was  she 
expected  to  write  to  her  and  inquire?  She  was 
not  entitled  to  possess  dignity,  of  course;  but  it 
was  not  easy  to  eat  dust  because  the  right  to 
self-respect  was  forfeited. 

She  had  removed  to  a  lodging  in  Bernard 
Street,  Bloomsbury,  and  in  the  fusty  sitting- 
room  she  sat  all  day,  lonely  and  miserable,  re- 
viewing the  blunder  of  her  life.  She  neither 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  143 

wrote  nor  read — her  writing  was  an  idea  that 
she  hated  now ;  she  merely  thought — wishing  she 
could  recall  the  past,  wondering  how  she  could 
bear  the  future.  One  afternoon  when  she  sat 
there,  pale  and  heavy-eyed,  the  maid-of-all-work 
announced  a  visitor,  and  Mrs.  Baines  came  in. 

Mamie  rose  nervously,  and  the  other  ad- 
vanced. She  had  rehearsed  an  interview  which 
should  be  a  compromise  between  the  instructions 
that  had  been  given  by  her  brother,  and  the  at- 
titude of  righteous  rebuke  that  she  felt  to  be  a 
permissible  luxury,  but  the  forlornness  of  the 
figure  before  her  drove  her  opening  sentence 
from  her  head.  All  she  could  utter  was  the  girl's 
name ;  and  then  there  was  a  pause  in  which  they 
looked  at  each  other. 

"It  is  kind  of  you  to  come,"  Mamie  mur- 
mured. 

"I  hope  you're  well?"  said  Mrs.  Baines. 

"Not  very.    I Won't  you  sit  down?" 

"I  never  thought  I  should  see  you  like  this, 
Mamie!"  said  the  widow  half  involuntarily, 
shaking  her  head. 

The  girl  made  no  answer  in  words.  She 
caught  her  breath,  and  stood  passive.  If  the 
lash  fell  she  would  suffer  silently. 

"We  always  see  sin  punished,  though."    She 


144  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

believed  we  always  did;  she  retained  such  start- 
ling optimism.  "It's  not  for  me  to  reproach 
you." 

"Thank  you.  I'm  not  too  happy,  Aunt 
Lydia." 

"I  daresay,  my  dear.  I  haven't  come  to  make 
it  worse  for  you." 

She  scrutinised  her  again.  She  would  have 
been  horrified  to  hear  the  suggestion,  but  her 
niece's  presence  was  not  without  a  guilty  fasci- 
nation, a  pleasurable  excitement,  to  her  as  she 
remembered  that  here  was  one  who  had  broken 
the  Seventh  Commandment.  She  was  sitting 
opposite  a  girl  who  had  lived  in  Paris  with  a 
lover;  and  she  was  sitting  opposite  her  in  cir- 
cumstances which  redounded  to  her  own  credit! 

"I  have  heard  from  your  father,"  she  went 
on;  "I  suppose  you  know?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mamie;  "he  has  written  me." 

"And  do  you  wish  to  make  your  home  with 
me  again?  I'm  quite  ready  to  take  you  if  you 
like." 

"I  could  never  live  in  Lavender  Street  any 
more,  Aunt  Lydia.  You  must  understand  that 
—that  it  would  be  awful  to  me." 

"Your  father  hinted  at  my  moving.  It  will 
be  a  great  trouble,  but  I  shan't  shirk  my  duty, 
dear  Mamie.  If  it  will  make  your  burden  any 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  145 

easier  to  bear,  we  will  live  together  somewhere 
else.  I  say,  if  I  can  make  your  burden  any 
easier  for  you,  I  will  live  somewhere  else." 

"I  am  not  ungrateful.  I  ...  Yes,  if  you 
will  have  me,  I  should  like  to  come  to  you." 

Mrs.  Baines  sighed,  and  smoothed  her  skirt 
tremulously. 

"To  Balham?"  she  inquired. 

"You  are  moving  to  Balham?" 

"I  was  thinking  about  it.  I  was  over  there 
the  other  day  to  get  some  stuff  for  a  bodice.  It's 
nice  and  healthy,  and  the  shopping  is  cheap." 

"It's  all  the  same  to  me  where  we  go,"  said 
Mamie,  "so  long  as  the  people  don't  know  me." 

"I  hear  you  were  living  with — with  him  in 
Paris?  Operas,  and  drives,  and  all  manner  of 
things  to  soothe  your  conscience  he  gave  you,  no 
doubt?"  said  Mrs.  Baines,  in  an  awestruck  invi- 
tation to  communicativeness.  "After  that  ter- 
rible life  in  Paris,  Balham  will  seem  quiet  to 
you,  I  daresay;  but  perhaps  you  won't  mind 
that?" 

"No  place  can  be  too  quiet  for  me.  The 
quieter  it  is,  the  better  I  shall  like  it." 

"That's  as  it  should  be!  Though,  I  suppose, 
with  him  you  were  out  among  gaieties  every 
night?"  She  waited  for  a  few  particulars  again. 
As  none  was  forthcoming:  "Then  I'll  try  to  let 


146  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

the  house,  and  we'll  go  over  together  and  look 
at  some  in  Balham  as  soon  as  you  like,  my  dear," 
she  continued.  "Your  father  will  see  that  I'm 
not  put  to  any  expense.  In  the  meantime  you'll 
stay  where  you  are,  eh  ?  You  know — you  know 
I  saw  Mr.  Heriot  after  you'd  gone,  don't  you?" 

"No,"  stammered  the  girl,  lifting  eager  eyes. 
"You  went  to  him?" 

"The  very  next  day,  my  dear,  so  it  seemed! 
I  thought  I'd  drop  in  and  have  a  cup  of  tea 
with  you,  not  having  seen  you  for  so  long;  and 
through  missing  a  train,  and  having  such  a  time 
to  wait  at  the  station,  I  was  an  hour  and  more 
late  when  I  got  to  Kensington.  He  was  at 
home.  Of  course  I  had  no  idea  there  was  any- 
thing wrong;  I  shall  never  forget  it — never! 
You  might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather 
when  I  heard  you'd  gone." 

"What,"  muttered  Mamie,  "what  did  he  say?" 

"It  was  like  this.  I  said  to  him,  'Dear  Ma- 
mie's away,  the  servant  tells  me?'  For  natu- 
rally I  thought  you  were  visiting  friends;  'as 
likely  as  not,  she's  with  his  family,'  I  thought  to 
myself.  'Oh  yes,'  he  said,  'you  must  prepare 
yourself  for  a  shock,  Mrs.  Baines — my  wife  has 
left  me.'  'Left  you?'  I  said.  'Yes,'  said  he,  so 
cool  that  it  turned  me  a  mask  of  blood  to  hear 
him,  'she's  gone  away  with  a  lover.'  'Mr. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  147 

Heriot!'  I  exclaimed — 'Mister  Heriot!'  'She 
left  a  note,'  he  said,  'so  it's  quite  true.  Do  you 
think  we  need  talk  about  it  much?  I  don't  know 
that  a  worthless  woman  is  any  loss,'  he  said." 

"He  said  that?" 

"Those  were  his  very  words,  my  dear.  And 
that  cool!  I  stared  at  him.  I'd  no  mind  to 
make  excuses  for  you,  Gawd  knows ;  but,  for  all 
that,  one's  own  flesh  and  blood  wasn't  going  to 
be  talked  about  like  niggers  in  my  hearing. 
When  I  got  my  wits  together,  I  said,  'It  seems 
to  me  I'd  be  sorrier  for  you,  Mr.  Heriot,  if  you 
took  it  different.'  'Oh,'  said  he  in  his  superior 
way,  'would  you?  We  needn't  discuss  my  feel- 
ings, madam.  Perhaps  you'll  stay  and  dine?' 
I  was  so  angry  that  I  couldn't  be  civil  to  him. 
'I  thank  you,'  I  said,  'I  will  not  stay  and  dine. 
And  I  take  the  opportunity,  Mr.  Heriot,  of  tell- 
ing you  you're  a  brute!'  With  that  I  came 
away ;  but  there  was  much  more  in  between  that 
I've  forgotten.  About  the  divorce  it  was.  He 
said  he  had  'a  duty  to  himself,'  and  that  the  man 
could  marry  you  when  you  were  divorced ;  which 
I  suppose  he  would  have  done  if  he  had  lived? 
though  whether  your  sin  would  have  been  any 
less,  my  dear,  if  an  archbishop  had  performed 
the  ceremony  is  a  question  that  I  couldn't  under- 
take to  decide.  You  must  begin  your  life  afresh, 


148  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

now  that  it's  all  'absolute' — which  I  learn  is  the 
proper  term — and  you'll  never  be  in  a  newspaper 
any  more.  Pray  to  Heaven  for  aid,  and  take 
heart  of  grace!  And  if  it  will  relieve  you  to 
speak  sometimes  of  those  sinful  months  with — 
with  the  other  one  in  Paris,  why,  you  shall  talk 
about  them  to  me,  my  dear,  and  I  won't  re- 
proach you." 

Mamie  was  no  longer  listening.  An  emotion 
that  she  did  not  seek  to  define  was  roused  in 
her  as  she  wondered  if  Heriot  could  indeed  have 
taken  the  blow  so  stoically  as  her  aunt  declared. 
She  scarcely  knew  whether  she  wished  to  put 
faith  in  his  demeanour  or  not,  but  the  subject 
was  one  that  filled  her  thoughts  long  after  Mrs. 
Baines'  departure.  It  was  one  to  which  she 
constantly  recurred. 

With  less  delay  than  might  have  been  antici- 
pated, the  widow  found  a  house  in  Balham  to 
fulfil  her  requirements,  and  the  removal  was  ef- 
fected several  months  before  No.  20,  Lavender 
Street  was  sub-let. 

The  houses  of  this  class  differ  from  one  an- 
other but  slightly.  Excepting  that  the  one  in 
Balham  was  numbered  "44,"  and  that  the  street 
was  called  "Rosalie  Road,"  Mamie  could  have 
found  it  easy  to  believe  that  she  was  re-installed 
in  Wandsworth.  It  seemed  to  her  sometimes  as 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  149 

if  the  van  that  had  removed  the  furniture  had 
also  brought  the  ground-floor  parlour,  with  the 
miniature  bay  window  overlooking  the  shrubs 
and  the  plot  of  mould.  The  back  yard  with  the 
clothes  prop,  and  the  neighbours'  yards  with  the 
continuous  clatter,  they  too  might  have  been 
transferred  from  Lavender  Street;  and  so  abid- 
ing was  the  clatter  that  even  if  she  felt  sleepy  at 
nine  o'clock,  it  was  useless  to  go  to  bed  before 
eleven.  In  view  of  this  unintermittent  necessity 
for  back  yards,  she  wondered  how  the  inmates 
of  more  expensive  houses  for  which  back  yards 
were  not  provided  managed  to  support  the  de- 
ficiency. The  women  that  she  viewed,  from  the 
bedroom,  among  the  clothes  lines,  or  across  the 
plot  of  mould,  as  they  went  forth  with  string 
bags,  might  have  been  the  Lavender  Street  ten- 
ants. And  were  they  not  the  Lavender  Street 
children,  these  who  on  week-days  swung,  un- 
kempt, on  the  little  creaking  gates  along  the 
road,  and  on  Sundays  walked  abroad  in  colours 
so  grotesquely  unsuited  to  them? 

Such  houses  are,  for  the  most  part,  happily, 
the  crown  of  lives  too  limited  to  realise  their 
limitations — too  unsuccessful  to  be  aware  that 
they  have  failed.  To  Rosalie  Road,  Balham, 
with  her  Aunt  Lydia  for  companion,  the  di- 
vorced woman  at  the  age  of  twenty-six  retired 


150  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

to  remember  that  she  had  once  hoped  to  be  an 
artist,  and  had  had  the  opportunity  of  being 
happy. 

To-day  she  hoped  for  nothing.  There  was  no 
scope  for  hope.  If  she  could  have  awakened  to 
find  herself  famous,  her  existence  would  have 
been  coloured  a  little — though  she  knew  that 
fame  could  not  satisfy  her  now  as  it  would  once 
have  done — but  the  ability  to  labour  for  dis- 
tinction was  gone.  She  was  apathetic,  she  had 
no  interest  in  anything.  When  six  months  had 
passed,  she  regarded  death  as  the  only  event  to 
which  she  could  still  look  forward;  when  she  had 
been  here  a  year,  a  glimmer  of  relief  entered  into 
her  depression — the  doctor  who  had  attended 
her,  and  sounded  her  lungs,  told  her  that  she 
"must  take  care  of  herself." 

Sometimes  a  neighbour  looked  in,  and  spoke 
of  dilapidations  and  the  indifference  of  the  land- 
lord; of  the  reductions  at  a  High  Road  linen- 
draper's,  and  the  whooping-cough.  Sometimes 
a  curate  called  to  sell  tickets  for  a  concert  more 
elementary  than  his  sermons.  In  the  afternoon 
she  walked  to  Tooting  Bee  and  stared  at  the 
bushes;  in  the  evening  she  betook  herself  to  the 
"circulating  library,"  where  Lady  Audley's 
Secret  and  The  Wide,  Wide  World  were  dis- 
played and  the  proprietor  said  he  hadn't  heard 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  151 

of  Meredith — "perhaps  she  had  made  a  mistake 
in  the  name?"  God  help  her!  She  was  guilty 
and  she  had  left  a  husband  desolate;  but  the 
music  that  she  had  dreamed  of  was  the  Opera  on 
Wagner  nights ;  the  books  that  she  had  expected 
were  copies  containing  signatures  that  were  the 
envy  of  the  autograph-collector;  the  circle  that 
had  been  her  aim  was  the  world  of  literature  and 
art.  She  lived  at  Balham;  she  saw  the  curate, 
and  she  heard  of  the  dilapidations  in  the  neigh- 
bour's roof.  One  year  merged  into  another ;  and 
if  she  lived  for  forty  more,  the  neighbour  and 
the  curate  would  be  her  All. 


CHAPTER  XI 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHEN  five  years  had  passed  after  the  divorce, 
the  Liberal  Party  came  into  power  again,  and 
George  Heriot,  Q.C.,  M.P.,  was  appointed  So- 
licitor-General. His  work  and  ambitions  had 
not  sufficed  to  mend  the  gap  in  his  life;  but  it 
had  been  in  work  and  ambition  that  he  endeav- 
oured to  find  assuagement  of  the  wound.  Per- 
haps eagerness  had  never  been  so  keen  in  him 
after  his  wife  went  as  while  he  was  contesting 
the  borough  that  he  represented  now;  perhaps 
he  had  never  realised  the  inadequacy  of  success 
so  fully  as  he  did  to-day  when  one  of  the  richest 
prizes  of  his  profession  was  obtained.  Conscious 
that  the  anticipated  flavour  was  lacking,  the 
steps  to  which  he  might  look  forward  still  lost 
much  of  their  allurement.  Were  he  promoted 
to  the  post  of  Attorney-General,  and  raised  to 
the  Bench,  he  foresaw  that  it  would  elate  him  no 
more  than  it  elated  him  now,  as  Sir  George 
Heriot,  and  a  very  wealthy  man,  to  recall  the 
period,  when,  as  a  struggling  junior,  he  had  sat 
up  half  the  night  to  earn  a  guinea. 

155 


156  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

The  five  years  had  left  their  mark  upon  him; 
the  hours  of  misery  which  no  one  suspected  had 
left  their  mark  upon  him.  The  lines  about  his 
eyes  and  mouth  had  deepened;  his  hair  was 
greyer,  his  figure  less  erect.  Men  who,  in  their 
turn,  sat  up  half  the  night  to  earn  a  guinea, 
envied  him,  cited  his  career  as  an  example  of 
brilliant  luck — the  success  of  others  is  always 
"luck" — and,  though  they  assumed  that  a  fellow 
was  "generally  cut  up  a  bit  when  his  wife  went 
wrong,"  found  it  difficult  to  conceive  that  Sir 
George  had  permitted  domestic  trouble  to  alloy 
his  triumphs  to  any  great  extent.  Nobody 
imagined  that  there  were  still  nights  when  he 
suffered  scarcely  less  acutely  than  on  the  one 
when  he  returned  to  discover  that  Mamie  had 
gone;  nobody  guessed  that  there  were  evenings 
when  his  loneliness  was  almost  unbearable  to  the 
dry,  self-contained  man — that  moments  came 
when  he  took  from  a  drawer  the  likeness  that 
had  once  stood  on  his  desk  and  yearned  over  it 
in  despair.  That  was  his  secret;  pride  forbade 
that  he  should  share  it  with  another.  He  con- 
temned himself  that  he  did  suffer  still.  A 
worthless  woman  should  not  be  mourned.  Out 
of  his  life  should  be  out  of  his  memory;  such 
weakness  shamed  him! 

In  August,  a  week  or  so  after  the  vacation 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  157 

began,  he  went  to  stay  at  Sandhills.  His  object 
in  going  to  Sandhills  was  not  wholly  to  see  his 
brother,  and  still  less  was  it  to  see  his  sister-in- 
law.  He  was  solitary,  he  was  wretched,  and  he 
was  only  forty-seven  years  of  age.  He  had 
been  questioning  for  some  time  whether  the 
wisest  thing  he  could  do  would  not  be  to  marry 
again;  he  sought  no  resumption  of  rapture;  but 
he  wanted  a  home.  An  estimable  wife,  perhaps 
a  son,  would  supply  new  interests ;  and  the  vague 
question  that  had  entered  his  mind  had  latterly 
been  emphasised  by  his  introduction  to  Miss 
Pierways,  who,  he  was  aware,  was  now  the  guest 
of  Lady  Heriot. 

Miss  Pierways  was  the  daughter  of  a  lady 
who  had  been  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Pierways,  and 
whose  straitened  circumstances  had  debarred 
her  from  the  suite  in  Hampton  Court  that  she 
might  otherwise  have  had  at  the  period  of  her 
husband's  death.  The  widow  and  the  girl  had 
retired  to  obscure  lodgings;  the  only  break  in 
the  monotony  of  the  latter's  existence  being  an 
occasional  visit  to  some  connections,  or  friends, 
at  whose  places  it  was  hoped  that  she  might  form 
a  desirable  alliance.  The  most  stringent  econo- 
mies had  to  be  practised  in  order  to  procure 
passable  frocks  for  these  visits,  but  the  oppor- 
tunities had  led  to  no  result,  though  she  had 


158  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

beauty.  And  then  an  extraordinary  event  oc- 
curred. When  the  girl  was  twenty-eight,  the 
widow,  who,  for  once,  had  reluctantly  accepted 
an  invitation  to  accompany  her,  received  an 
offer  of  marriage  herself,  and  became  the  wife 
of  an  American  who  was  known  to  be,  several 
times  over,  a  millionaire. 

For  one  door  that  had  been  ajar  to  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Pierways,  with  nothing 
but  her  birth  and  her  appearance  to  recommend 
her,  a  hundred  doors  flew  open  to  the  step- 
daughter of  Henry  Van  Buren;  and  it  was 
shortly  after  the  startling  metamorphosis  in  the 
fortunes  of  the  pair  that  Heriot  had  first  met 
them. 

The  dowry  that  Agnes  Pierways  might  bring 
to  her  husband  weighed  with  him  very  little,  for 
he  was  in  a  position  to  disregard  such  considera- 
tions. But  Miss  Pierways'  personality  appeared 
to  him  suggestive  of  all  the  qualifications  that 
he  sought  in  the  lady  whom  he  should  marry. 
Without  her  manner  being  impulsive  or  girlish, 
she  was  sufficiently  young  to  be  attractive.  She 
was  handsome,  and  in  a  slightly  statuesque 
fashion  that  bore  promise  of  the  serenity  which 
he  told  himself  was  now  his  aim.  Certainly  if 
he  did  re-marry — and  he  was  contemplating  the 
step  very  seriously — it  would  be  difficult  to  se- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  159 

cure  a  partner  to  fulfil  his  requirements  more 
admirably  than  Miss  Pierways.  Whether  he 
fulfilled  hers,  he  could  ascertain  when  he  had 
fully  made  up  his  mind.  It  was  with  the  inten- 
tion of  making  up  his  mind,  in  proximity  to  the 
lady,  that  he  had  gone  to  Sandhills;  and  one 
evening,  when  he  was  alone  in  the  smoking-room 
with  his  brother,  the  latter  blundered  curiously 
enough  on  to  the  bull's  eye  of  his  meditations. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Sir  Francis,  "that  you've 
never  thought  of  re-marrying,  George?" 

"My  experience  of  matrimony  was  not  for- 
tunate," answered  Heriot,  smoking  slowly,  but 
with  inward  perturbation. 

"Your  experience  of  matrimony  was  a  colossal 
folly.  All  things  considered,  the  consequences 
might  easily  have  been  a  good  deal  worse." 

"I  don't  follow  you." 

"Between  ourselves,  the  end  never  seemed  to 
me  so  regrettable  as  you  think  it." 

"My  wife  left  me." 

"And  you  divorced  her!  And  you  have  no 
children." 

"If  I  had  had  children,"  said  Heriot  musingly, 
"it  is  a  fact  that  the  consequences  would  have 
been  worse." 

"But  in  any  case,"  said  the  Baronet,  "it  was 
a  huge  mistake.  Really  one  may  be  frank,  in 


160  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

the  circumstances!  You  married  madly.  The 
probability  is  that  if  your  wife  had  been — if  you 
were  living  together  still,  you  would  be  a  mis- 
erable man  to-day.  It  was  a  very  lamentable 
affair,  of  course,  when  it  happened,  but  regard- 
ing it  coolly — in  looking  back  on  it — don't  you 
fancy  that  perhaps  things  are  just  as  well  as 
they  are?" 

"I  was  very  fond  of  my  wife,"  replied  Heriot, 
engrossed  by  his  cigar. 

"To  an  extent,"  said  Sir  Francis  indulgently, 
"no  doubt  you  had  an  affection  for  her.  But, 
my  dear  fellow,  what  companionship  had  you? 
Was  she  a  companion?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Was  she  interested  in  your  career?  Could 
she  understand  your  ways  of  thought?  Was 
she  used  to  your  world?  One  doesn't  ask  a  great 
deal  of  women,  but  had  you  any  single  thing  in 
common  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Heriot  again. 

Sir  Francis  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Take  my  word  for  it  that,  with  such  a  girl 
as  you  married,  your  divorce  wasn't  an  unmixed 
evil.  It  wasn't  the  release  one  would  have 
chosen,  but  at  least  it  was  better  for  you  than 
being  tied  to  her  for  life.  Damn  it,  George! 
what's  the  use  of  blinking  the  matter  now?  She 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  161 

was  absolutely  unsuited  to  you  in  every  way; 
you  must  admit  it!" 

"I  suppose  she  was.  At  the  same  time  I  was 
happy  with  her." 

"How  long  would  the  infatuation  have 
lasted?" 

"It  lasted  more  than  three  years." 
"Would  it  have  lasted  another  five?" 
"Speaking  honestly,  I  believe  it  would." 
"Though  you  had  nothing  in  common?" 
"I  don't  explain,"  said  Heriot.     "I  tell  you, 
I  was  happy  with  her,  that's  all.     Viewing  it 
dispassionately,  I  suppose  she  was  unsuited  to 
me — I  don't  know  that  we  did  have  anything 
in  common;   I  don't  see  any  justification  for 
the  fool's  paradise  I  lived  in.    But  for  all  that, 
if  I  married  again,  I  should  never  care  for  the 
woman  as — as  I  cared  for  her.    In  fact,  I  should 
merely  marry  to —          He  was  about  to  say 
"to  try  to  forget  her" — "to  make  a  home  for 
myself,"  he  said  instead. 

"Have  you  considered  such  a  step?"  asked 
Sir  Francis. 

"Sometimes,  yes." 

"The  best  thing  you  could  do — a  very  proper 
thing  for  you  to  do.  .  .  .  Anybody  in  par- 
ticular?" 

"It's  rather  premature " 


162  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"You're  not  in  chambers,  old  fellow!" 

"What  do  you  think  of  Miss  Pierways?"  in- 
quired Heriot  after  a  scarcely  perceptible  pause. 

"A  very  excellent  choice!  I  should  con- 
gratulate you  heartily.  We  had  not  noticed 
the —  And  Catherine  is  very  acute  in  these 
matters " 

"There  has  been  nothing  to  notice;  probably 
she  would  refuse  me  point-blank.  But  in  the 
event  of  my  determining  to  marry  again,  I've 
wondered  whether  Miss  Pierways  wouldn't  be 
the  lady  I  proposed  to." 

"I  don't  think  you  could  do  better." 

"Really?  You  don't  think  I'm  too  old  for 
her?" 

"On  my  honour!  'Too  old  for  her'?  Not  a 
bit,  a  very  sensible  marriage !  I'm  not  surprised 
that  you  should  be  attracted  by  her." 

"  'Attracted  by  her,'  "  said  Heriot,  "suggests 
rather  more  than  the  actual  facts.  I  appreciate 
her  qualities,  but  I  can't  say  I'm  sensible  of  any 
attachment.  I'm  sorry  that  I'm  not.  I  appre- 
ciate her  so  fully  that  I  am  anxious  to  be  drawn 
towards  her  a  little  more.  I'm  somewhat  past 
the  age  for  ardent  devotion,  but  I  couldn't  take 
a  wife  as  I  might  buy  a  horse.  Of  course,  I've 
not  been  very  much  in  her  society.  Er — down 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  163 

here.  I  daresay,  when  I  come  to  know  her 
better Have  you  met  Van  Buren?" 

"In  town,  before  he  sailed.  He  is  in  New 
York,  you  know.  I  like  them  all.  We  were 
very  pleased  to  have  the  mother  and  the  girl 
come  to  us.  ...  Well,  make  your  hay  while  the 
sun  shines!" 

"It  isn't  shining,"  said  Heriot;  "I'm  just 
looking  east,  waiting  for  it  to  rise  But  I'm  glad 
to  have  talked  to  you;  as  soon  as  the  first  ray 
comes  I  think  I'll  take  your  advice.  I  ought  to 
marry,  Francis ;  I  know  you're  right." 


CHAPTER  XII 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  more  he  reflected  the  more  he  was  con- 
vinced of  it;  in  marriage  lay  his  chance  of 
contentment.  And  during  the  ensuing  fortnight 
his  approval  of  Miss  Pierways  deepened.  The 
house  would  not  fill  until  the  following  month, 
and  the  smallness  of  the  party  there  at  present 
was  favourable  to  the  development  of  acquaint- 
ance. 

Excepting  that  she  was  a  trifle  cold,  there 
was  really  no  scope  for  adverse  criticism  upon 
Miss  Pierways.  She  was  unusually  well  read, 
took  an  intelligent  interest  in  matters  on  which 
women  of  her  age  were  rarely  informed,  and 
was  accomplished  to  the  extent  that  she  played 
the  piano  after  dinner  with  brilliant  execution 
and  admirable  hands  and  wrists.  Her  coldness, 
theoretically,  was  no  drawback  to  him,  and 
Heriot  was  a  little  puzzled  by  his  own  attitude. 
Her  air  was  neither  so  formal  as  to  intimate  that 
his  advances  would  be  unwelcome,  nor  so  self- 
conscious  as  to  repel  him  by  the  warmth  of  its 

encouragement;  yet,  in  spite  of  his  admiration, 

167 


168  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

the  idea  of  proposing  to  her  dismayed  him  when 
he  forced  himself  to  approach  the  brink. 

His  vacillation  was  especially  irritating  since 
he  had  learned  that  the  ladies  were  at  the  point 
of  joining  Van  Buren  in  New  York.  The 
opportunity  of  which  he  was  failing  to  take 
advantage  would  speedily  be  past,  and  he 
dreaded  that  if  he  suffered  it  to  escape  him,  he 
would  recall  the  matter  with  regret.  He  per- 
ceived as  well,  however,  that  if  he  were  pre- 
cipitate, he  might  regret  that  too,  and  he  was 
sorry  that  they  were  not  remaining  in  Europe 
longer. 

One  evening,  when  their  departure  was  being 
discussed,  the  mother  expressed  surprise  that 
he  had  never  visited  America,  though  she  had 
had  no  curiosity  about  it,  herself,  until  she 
married  an  American;  and  in  answer  Heriot 
declared  that  he  had  frequently  thought  of 
"running  across  during  the  long  vacation." 

"If  you  ever  do,"  she  said,  "I  hope  you  will 
choose  a  year  when  we  are  there." 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  thinking  of  it 
this  year." 

"We  may  see  you  in  New  York,  Sir  George?" 
said  Miss  Pierways.  "Really?  How  strange 
that  will  seem!  I've  been  eager  to  go  to  New 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  169 

York  all  my  life;  but  now  that  I'm  going,  I'm 
rather  afraid.  The  idea  of  a  great  city  where 
I  haven't  any  friends 

"But  you  will  have  many  friends,  Agnes." 

"By-and-by,"  answered  Miss  Pierways.  "Yes, 
I  suppose  so.  But  it's  very  fatiguing  making 
friends,  don't  you  think  so?  And  I  tremble  at 
the  voyage." 

"How  delightful  it  would  be,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Van  Buren,  "if  we  were  going  by  the  same 
steamer,  Sir  George!" 

Heriot  laughed. 

"It  would  be  very  delightful  to  me  to  make  the 
voyage  in  your  company.  But  I  might  bore 
you  frightfully;  a  week  at  sea  must  be  a  severe 
test.  I  should  be  afraid  of  being  found  out." 

"We  are  promised  other  passengers,"  observed 
Miss  Pierways,  looking  down  with  a  faint  smile. 
Her  archness  was  a  shade  stiff,  but  her  neck  was 
one  of  her  chief  attractions. 

"Why  don't  you  go,  George?"  said  Lady 
Heriot  cheerfully.  "You'd  much  better  go  by 
Mrs.  Van  Buren's  boat  than  any  other;  and 
you've  been  talking  of  making  a  trip  to  America 
'next  year'  ever  since  I've  known  you!" 

This  amiable  fiction  was  succeeded  by  fresh 
protestations  from  Mrs.  Van  Buren  that  no 


170  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

arrangement  could  be  more  charming,  and 
Heriot,  half  against  his  will,  half  with  pleasure, 
found  himself  agreeing  to  telegraph  in  the 
morning  to  inquire  if  he  could  obtain  a  berth. 

He  hardly  knew  whether  he  was  sorry  or  glad 
when  he  had  done  so.  That  the  step  would 
result  in  an  engagement  might  be  predicted  with 
a  tolerable  degree  of  certainty,  and  he  would 
have  preferred  to  arrive  at  an  understanding 
with  himself  under  conditions  that  savoured  less 
of  coercion. 

Since  a  state-room  proved  to  be  vacant,  how- 
ever, he  could  do  no  less  now  than  engage  it; 
and  everybody  appeared  so  much  pleased,  and 
Miss  Pierways  was  so  very  gracious,  that  the 
misgivings  that  disturbed  him  looked  momentar- 
ily more  unreasonable  than  ever. 

The  night  before  he  sailed,  in  their  customary 
chat  over  whisky  and  cigars,  Sir  Francis  said 
to  him: 

"  'Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  unto  you'!" 

"I'm  inclined  to  think  you're  right,"  said 
his  brother.  "I  suppose  it  will  end  in  it.  ... 
She's  a  trifle  like  a  well-bred  machine — doesn't 
it  strike  you  so? — warranted  never  to  get  out  of 
order!"  The  other's  look  was  significant,  and 
Heriot  added,  "Very  desirable  in  a  wife,  of 
course!  Only  somehow " 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  171 

'  'Only  somehow'  you're  eccentric,  George 
— you  always  were !" 

"It's  not  my  reputation,"  said  Heriot  drily; 
"I  believe  that  I'm  considered  particularly 
practical." 

"Reputations,"  retorted  the  Baronet,  attempt- 
ing an  epigram,  as  he  sometimes  did  in  the  course 
of  his  second  whisky-and-potash,  and  failing 
signally  in  the  endeavour,  "are  like  tombstones — 
generally  false."  He  realised  the  reality  of 
tombstones,  and  became  controversial.  "I've 
known  you  from  a  boy,  and  I  say  you  were 
always  eccentric.  It  was  nothing  but  your 
eccentricity  that  you  had  to  thank  before.  Here's 
a  nice  girl,  a  girl  who  will  certainly  have  a  good 
settlement,  a  girl  who's  undeniably  handsome, 
ready  to  say  'yes'  at  the  asking,  and  you  grumble 
—I'm  hanged  if  you  don't  grumble! — because 
you  see  she  is  to  be  depended  on.  What  the  devil 
do  you  want?" 

"I  want  to  be  fond  of  her,"  answered  Heriot. 
"I  admit  all  you've  said  of  her;  I  want  to  like 
her  more." 

"So  you  ought  to;  but  what  does  it  matter  if 
you  don't?  All  women  are  alike  to  the  men 
who've  married  them  after  a  year  or  two.  She'll 
make  an  admirable  mother,  and  that's  the  main 
thing,  I  suppose?" 


172  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

Was  it? 

Heriot  recalled  the  criticism  during  his  first 
day  on  board.  Neither  of  the  ladies  was  visible 
until  Queenstown  was  reached,  and  he  paced 
the  deck,  pursuing  his  reflections  by  the  aid  of 
tobacco.  She  would  "make  an  admirable  mother, 
and  that  was  the  main  thing"!  Of  the  second 
half  of  the  opinion  he  was  not  so  sure.  To  marry 
a  woman  simply  because  one  believed  she  would 
shine  in  a  maternal  capacity  was  somewhat  too 
altruistic,  he  thought.  However,  he  was  fully 
aware  that  Miss  Pierways  had  other  recom- 
mendations. 

She  appeared  with  her  mother  at  the  head  of 
the  companion-way  while  he  was  wishing  that 
he  hadn't  come,  and  he  found  their  chairs  for 
them,  and  arranged  their  rugs,  and  subsequently 
gave  their  letters  to  the  steward  to  be  posted. 

After  leaving  Queenstown,  Mrs.  Van  Bur  en's 
sufferings  increased,  and  the  girl,  who,  saving 
for  a  brief  interval,  was  well  and  cheerful,  was 
practically  in  his  charge.  It  was  Heriot  who 
accompanied  her  from  the  saloon  after  break- 
fast, and  strolled  up  and  down  with  her  till  she 
was  tired.  When  the  chair  and  the  rug — the 
salient  features  of  a  voyage  are  the  woman,  the 
chair,  and  the  rug — were  satisfactorily  arranged, 
it  was  he  who  sat  beside  her,  talking.  Flying 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  173 

visits  she  made  below,  while  her  mother  kept  her 
cabin ;  but  for  the  most  part  she  was  on  deck — or 
in  the  saloon,  or  in  the  reading-room — and  for 
the  most  part  Heriot  was  the  person  to  whom 
she  looked  for  conversation.  If  he  had  been  a 
decade  or  two  younger,  he  would  probably  have 
proposed  to  her  long  before  they  sighted  Sandy 
Hook,  and  it  surprised  him  that  he  did  not  suc- 
cumb to  the  situation  as  it  was.  A  woman  is 
nowhere  so  dangerous,  and  nowhere  is  a  man  so 
susceptible,  as  at  sea.  The  interminable  days 
demand  flirtation,  if  one  is  not  to  perish  of 
boredom.  Moonlight  and  water  are  notoriously 
potent,  even  when  viewed  for  only  half  an  hour ; 
and  at  sea,  the  man  and  the  girl  look  at  the 
moonlight  on  the  water  together  regularly  every 
evening.  And  it  is  very  becoming  to  the  girl. 
Miss  Pierways'  face  was  always  a  disappoint- 
ment to  Heriot  at  breakfast.  The  remembrance 
of  its  factitious  softness  the  previous  night  made 
its  hardness  in  the  sunshine  look  harder.  He 
wondered  if  it  was  the  remembrance  of  its  hard- 
ness at  breakfast  that  kept  him  from  proposing 
to  her  when  they  loitered  in  the  moonlight.  He 
was  certainly  doing  his  best  to  fall  in  love  with 
her,  and  everything  conspired  to  assist  him;  but 
the  days  went  on,  and  the  momentous  question 
remained  unuttered. 


174  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"We  shall  soon  be  there,"  she  said  one  evening 
as  they  strolled  about  the  deck  after  dinner. 
"I'm  beginning  to  be  keen.  Have  you  noticed 
how  everybody  is  saying,  'New  York'  now?  At 
first  no  one  alluded  to  it — we  mightn't  have  been 
due  for  a  year — and  since  yesterday  nobody's 
talking  of  anything  else!" 

"Nearly  everyone  I've  spoken  to  seems  to 
have  made  the  trip  half  a  dozen  times,"  said 
Heriot.  "I  feel  dreadfully  untravelled  in  the 
smoking-room.  When  are  you  going  to  Nia- 
gara? Niagara  is  one  of  the  things  I'm  de- 
termined not  to  miss." 

"I  was  talking  to  some  girls  who  have  lived 
in  New  York  all  their  lives — when  they  weren't 
in  Europe — and  they  haven't  been  there  yet. 
They  told  me  they  had  been  to  the  panorama 
in  Westminster!" 

"I  have  met  a  Londoner  who  had  never  been 
to  the  Temple." 

"No?  How  perfectly  appalling!"  she  ex- 
claimed, none  the  less  fervently  because  she 
hadn't  been  to  it  herself.  "Oh,  yes,  I  know 
I  shall  adore  Niagara!  I  want  to  see  a  great 
deal  of  America  while  I'm  there." 

"I  wish  I  had  time  to  see  more;  I  should  like 
to  go  to  California." 

"I  wouldn't  see  California  for  any  considera- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  175 

tion  on  earth!"  she  declared.  "California  to  me, 
is  Bret  Harte — I  should  be  so  afraid  of  being 
disillusioned.  When  we  went  to  Ireland  once, 
do  you  know,  Sir  George,  it  was  a  most  painful 
shock  to  me !  My  ideas  of  Ireland  were  founded 
on  Dion  Boucicault's  plays — I  expected  to  see 
all  the  peasants  in  fascinating  costumes,  with 
their  hair  down  their  backs,  just  as  one  sees  them 
on  the  stage.  The  reality  was  terrible.  I  shud- 
der when  I  recall  the  disappointment." 

"I  sympathise." 

"Of  course  you're  laughing  at  me!  I  shall 
have  my  revenge,  if  you  don't  like  New  York. 
But,  I  don't  know — I  may  feel  guilty.  You 
mustn't  blame  us  if  you  don't  like  New  York, 
Sir  George.  Fortunately  you  won't  have  time 
to  be  very  bored,  though,  will  you?" 

"'Fortunately'?" 

"Fortunately  if  it  doesn't  amuse  you,  I  mean. 
When  does  the — how  do  you  say  it?  When  does 
your  holiday  end?" 

"I  must  be  back  in  London  on  the  twenty- 
fourth  of  next  month;  I'm  almost  American 
myself.  I  shall  haye  such  a  fleeting  glimpse  of 
the  country,  that  I  must  really  think  of  writing 
a  book  about  it." 

"You  have  something  better  to  do  than  write 
vapid  books.  To  me  your  profession  seems  the 


176  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

most  fascinating  one  there  is.  If  I  were  a  man, 
I'd  rather  be  called  to  the  Bar  than  anything. 
You'd  be  astonished  if  you  knew  how  many 
biographies  of  eminent  lawyers  I've  read — they 
enthralled  me  as  a  child.  I  don't  know  any 
career  that  suggests  such  power  to  me  as  the 
Bar.  Don't  smile:  sometimes,  when  we're  talk- 
ing and  I  remember  the  tremendous  influence 
you  wield,  I  tremble." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  him,  deprecating  her 
enthusiasm,  which  was  too  palpably  a  pose,  and 
again  Heriot  was  conscious  that  the  opportunity 
was  with  him,  if  he  could  but  grasp  it.  They 
had  paused  by  the  taffrail,  and  he  stood  looking 
at  her,  trying  to  speak  the  words  that  would 
translate  their  relations  to  a  definite  footing.  He 
no  longer  had  any  doubt  as  to  her  answer;  he 
could  foresee  her  reply — at  least  the  manner  of 
her  reply — with  disturbing  clearness.  He  knew 
that  she  would  hesitate  an  instant,  and  droop  her 
head,  and  ultimately  murmur  correct  phrases 
that  would  exhilarate  him  not  at  all.  In  imagi- 
nation he  already  heard  her  tones,  as  she  prom- 
ised to  be  his  wife.  He  supposed,  as  they  were 
screened  from  observation,  that  he  might  take 
her  hand.  How  passionless,  how  mechanical 
and  flat  it  would  all  be!  He  replied  with  a 
commonplace,  and  after  a  few  moments  they 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  177 

continued  their  stroll.  When  he  turned  in, 
however,  he  reproached  himself  more  forcibly 
than  he  had  done  yet,  and  his  vacillation  was  by 
no  means  at  an  end.  He  was  at  war,  not  with 
his  judgment,  but  with  his  instinct,  and  it  was 
the  perception  of  this  fact  that  always  increased 
his  perturbation. 

They  landed  the  following  day,  and,  after 
being  introduced  to  Mr.  Van  Buren  in  the 
custom-house,  Heriot  drove  to  an  hotel.  The 
hotel  he  found  excellent;  New  York  he  found 
wonderful,  but  a  city  different  from  what  he  had 
expected.  He  had  vaguely  pictured  New  York 
as  a  Paris  where  everybody  talked  English. 
This  was  before  the  introduction  of  the  automo- 
bile had  changed  the  face  of  Paris,  and  the  face 
of  the  Parisian — before  it  incidentally  reduced 
the  number  of  half -fed  horses  barbarously  used 
in  that  city,  which  is  the  negro's  paradise,  and 
the  "horse's  hell" — and  the  Boulevard  was  even 
more  unlike  Broadway  then  than  now.  Broad- 
way, broad  in  name  only  till  it  spread  into  the 
brightness  of  Union  Square,  suggested  London 
more  than  Paris — London  in  an  unprecedented 
burst  of  energy.  The  tireless  vigour  of  the 
throng,  the  ubiquitous  rush  of  the  Elevated 
Railway  confused  him.  Though  he  paid  homage 
to  the  cuisine  of  America,  which  proved  as  much 


178  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

superior  to  that  of  England  as  the  worst  trans- 
atlantic train  was  to  our  best  of  that  period,  he 
told  himself  that  he  was  disappointed.  The 
truth  was  that,  not  wishing  to  take  the  Van 
Burens'  invitations  too  literally,  and  having  no 
other  acquaintances  here,  he  was  dull. 

American  hospitality,  however,  is  the  most 
charming  in  the  world,  and  he  spent  several  very 
agreeable  hours  inside  the  big  brownstone  house. 
Nothing  could  have  exceeded  the  geniality  of 
Van  Buren's  manner,  nor  was  this  due  solely  to 
the  position  of  his  visitor  and  a  hope  of  their 
becoming  connected.  The  average  American 
business  man  will  show  more  kindness  to  a 
stranger,  who  intrudes  into  his  office,  than  most 
Englishmen  display  to  one  who  comes  to  them 
with  a  letter  of  introduction  from  a  friend,  and 
Van  Buren's  welcome  was  as  sincere  as  it  was 
attractive. 

Heriot  stayed  in  New  York  a  week,  and  then 
fulfilled  his  desire  to  visit  Niagara.  On  his 
return  he  called  in  Fifth  Avenue  again.  He  was 
already  beginning  to  refer  to  his  homeward 
voyage,  and  he  was  still  undetermined  whether 
he  would  propose  to  Miss  Pierways  or  not.  The 
days  slipped  by  without  his  arriving  at  a  con- 
clusion; and  then  one  morning  he  told  himself 
he  had  gone  too  far  to  retreat  now — that  the 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  179 

step,  which  was  doubtless  the  most  judicious  he 
could  take,  should  be  made  without  delay. 

He  called  at  the  house  the  same  afternoon — 
for  on  the  next  day  but  one  the  Etruria  sailed 
— and  he  found  the  ladies  at  home.  He  sat 
down,  wondering  if  he  would  be  left  alone  with 
Miss  Pierways  and  take  his  departure  engaged 
to  her.  But  for  half  an  hour  there  seemed  no 
likelihood  of  a  tete-a-tete.  Presently  there  were 
more  callers  and  they  were  shown  into  another 
room.  Mrs.  Van  Buren  begged  him  to  excuse 
her.  He  rose  to  leave,  but  was  pressed  to  remain. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  when  they've  gone," 
she  said;  "I  haven't  half  exhausted  my  list  of 
messages  to  London." 

Heriot  resumed  his  seat,  and  Miss  Pierways 
smiled. 

"Poor  mamma  wishes  she  were  going  herself, 
if  she  told  the  truth!  Now  that  we're  here,  it 
is  I  who  like  New  York,  not  she." 

"We're  creatures  of  custom,"  he  said;  "your 
mother  has  lived  in  London  too  long  to  accustom 
herself  to  America  very  easily.  ...  Of  course 
you'll  be  over  next  season?" 

"Oh  yes.  Shall  you  ever  come  to  America 
again,  Sir  George?" 

"I — I  hardly  know,"  he  answered.  "I  cer- 
tainly hope  to." 


180  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"Oh,  then,  you  will!  You're  your  own 
master." 

"Is  anybody  his  own  master?" 

"To  the  extent  of  travelling  to  America,  man-17 
people,  I  should  think!" 

He  remembered  with  sudden  gratification  that 
he  had  never  said  a  word  to  her  that  might  not 
have  been  spoken  before  a  crowd  of  listeners. 
What  was  there  to  prevent  his  withholding  the 
proposal  if  he  liked! 

"I've  no  doubt  I  shall  come,"  he  said  ab- 
stractedly. 

She  looked  slightly  downcast.  It  was  not  the 
reply  that  she  had  hoped  to  hear. 

"I  shall  always  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  you 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Van  Buren  for  making  my 
visit  so  pleasant  to  me,"  he  found  himself  saying 
next.  "My  trip  has  been  a  delightful  experi- 
ence." 

She  murmured  a  conventional  response,  but 
chagrin  began  to  creep  about  her  heart. 

Heriot  diverged  into  allusions  which  advanced 
the  position  not  at  all.  They  spoke  of  New 
York,  of  England,  of  the  voyage — she  perfunc- 
torily, and  he  with  ever-increasing  relief.  And 
now  he  felt  that  he  had  been  on  the  verge  of  the 
precipice  for  the  last  time.  He  had  escaped — 
and  by  the  intensity  of  his  gratitude  he  realised 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  181 

how  ill-judged  had  been  his  action  in  playing 
around  it. 

When  Mrs.  Van  Buren  reappeared,  followed 
by  her  husband,  her  daughter's  face  told  her 
that  the  climax  had  not  been  reached;  and  bold 
in  thanksgiving,  Heriot  excused  himself  when 
he  was  asked  to  dine  with  them  that  evening. 
Had  he  been  offered  the  alternative  of  the  next 
evening,  he  could  not  without  rudeness  have 
found  a  pretext  for  refusing ;  but  on  the  morrow, 
as  luck  would  have  it,  the  Van  Burens  were 
dining  out. 

The  footman  opened  the  big  door,  and  Heriot 
descended  the  steps  with  a  sensation  that  was 
foreign  to  him,  and  not  wholly  agreeable.  He 
knew  that  he  did  not  want  to  marry  Miss 
Pierways,  and  that  he  had  behaved  like  a  fool 
in  trying  to  acquire  the  desire,  but  he  was  a 
little  ashamed  of  himself.  His  conduct  had  not 
been  irreproachable;  and  he  was  conscious  that 
when  the  steamer  sailed  and  the  chapter  was 
closed  for  good  and  all,  he  would  be  glad  to  have 
done  with  it.  He  had  blundered  badly.  Never- 
theless he  would  have  blundered  worse,  and  been 
a  still  greater  fool,  if  the  affair  had  terminated 
in  an  engagement.  Of  course  his  brother  would 
say  distasteful  things  when  they  met  and  Lady 
Heriot  would  convey  her  extreme  disapproval 


182  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

of  him  without  saying  anything.  That  he  must 
put  up  with!  Of  two  evils,  he  had  at  any  rate 
chosen  the  lesser. 

He  repeated  the  assurance  with  still  more 
conviction  on  Saturday  morning  during  the 
quarter  of  an  hour  in  which  the  cab  rattled  him 
to  the  boat.  The  experience  had  been  a  lesson 
to  him,  and  he  was  resolved  that  henceforward 
he  would  dismiss  the  idea  of  marriage  from  his 
mind.  He  saw  his  portmanteau  deposited  in  his 
cabin,  and  he  returned  to  the  deck  as  the  steamer 
began  to  move.  The  decks  were  in  the  confusion 
that  obtains  at  first.  Passengers  still  hung  at 
the  taffrail,  taking  a  farewell  gaze  at  friends  on 
the  landing-stage.  The  chairs  were  huddled  in 
a  heap,  and  stewards  bustled  among  stacks  of 
luggage,  importuned  at  every  second  step  with 
instructions  and  inquiries. 

The  deep  pulsations  sounded  more  regular; 
the  long  line  of  sheds  receded;  and  the  figures 
of  the  friends  were  as  little  dark  toys,  waving 
specks  of  white.  Even  the  most  constant  among 
the  departing  began  to  turn  away  now.  The 
hastening  stewards  were  importuned  more  fre- 
quently than  before.  Everybody  was  in  a  hurry, 
and  all  the  women  in  the  crowd  that  flocked 
below  seemed  to  be  uttering  the  words  "baggage" 
and  "state-room"  at  the  same  time. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  183 

A  few  men  were  temporarily  in  possession  of 
the  deck,  striding  to  and  fro  behind  pipes  or 
cigars.  The  regulation  as  to  "No  smoking 
abaft  this"  was  not  in  force  yet,  or  was,  at  least, 
disobeyed  at  present.  Heriot  sauntered  along 
the  length  of  deck  until  it  began  to  fill  again. 
The  pile  of  chairs  received  attention — they  were 
set  out  in  a  row  under  the  awning.  The  deck 
took  a  dryness  and  a  whiteness,  and  a  few  pas- 
sengers sat  down,  and  questioned  inwardly  if 
they  would  find  one  another  companionable. 
He  bent  his  steps  to  the  smoking-room.  But  it 
was  empty  and  uninviting  thus  early,  and  he 
forsook  it  after  a  few  minutes.  As  the  door 
slammed  behind  him,  he  came  face  to  face  with 
the  woman  who  had  been  his  wife. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SHE  approached — their  gaze  met — he  had 
bowed,  and  passed  her.  Perhaps  it  had  lasted 
a  second,  the  mental  convulsion  in  which  he 
looked  in  her  eyes;  he  did  not  know.  He  found 
a  seat  and  sank  into  it,  staring  at  the  sky  and 
sea,  acutely  conscious  of  nothing  but  her  near- 
ness. He  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  despair 
or  rejoicing  that  beat  in  him;  he  knew  nothing 
but  that  the  world  had  swayed,  that  life  was  in  an 
instant  palpitating  and  vivid — that  he  had  seen 
her! 

Then  he  knew  that,  in  the  intensity  of  emotion 
that  shook  him  body  and  brain,  there  was  a  thrill 
of  joy,  inexplicable  but  insistent.  But  when  he 
rose  at  last,  he  dreaded  that  he  might  see  her 
again. 

He  did  not  see  her  till  the  evening — when  he 
drew  back  at  the  door  of  the  saloon  as  she  came 
out.  His  features  were  imperturbable  now  and 
betrayed  nothing,  though  her  own,  before  her 
head  drooped,  were  piteous  in  appeal. 

He  noted  that  she  looked  pale  and  ill,  and  that 

187 


188  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

she  wore  a  black  dress  with  crape  on  it.  He 
wondered  whether  she  had  lost  her  father,  or  her 
aunt.  Next  morning  he  understood  that  it  was 
her  father,  for  he  saw  her  sitting  beside  Mrs. 
Baines.  So  Dick  Cheriton  was  dead.  He  had 
once  been  fond  of  Dick  Cheriton.  .  .  .  The 
stranger  in  the  black  frock  had  once  slept  in  his 
arms,  and  borne  his  name.  .  .  .  The  sadness  of 
a  lifetime  weighed  on  his  soul. 

He  perceived  that  she  shunned  him  by  every 
means  in  her  power.  But  they  were  bound  to 
meet;  and  then  across  her  face  would  flash 
the  same  look  that  he  had  seen  at  the  foot  of  the 
companion-way;  its  supplication  and  abasement 
wrung  him.  Horrible  as  the  continual  meetings 
grew,  in  the  reading-room,  on  deck,  or  below, 
their  lines  crossed  a  dozen  times  between  break- 
fast and  eleven  o'clock  at  night.  It  became  as 
torturous  to  Heriot  as  to  her.  He  felt  as  if  he 
had  struck  her,  as  he  saw  her  whiten  and  shrink 
as  he  passed  her  by.  Soon  he  hated  himself  for 
being  here  to  cause  her  this  intolerable  pain. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day  that 
her  endurance  broke  down  and  she  made  her 
petition.  With  a  pang  he  recognised  the  voice 
of  her  messenger  before  he  turned. 

"Mrs.  Baines!" 

"You're  surprised  I  should  address  you,  Mr. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  189 

Heriot,"  she  said.  "I  shouldn't  have,  but  she 
wants  me  to  beg  you  to  speak  to  her,  if  it's  only 
for  five  minutes.  She  implores  you  humbly  to 
let  her  speak  to  you.  She  made  me  ask  you;  I 
couldn't  say  no." 

His  pulses  throbbed  madly,  and  momentarily 
he  couldn't  reply. 

"What  purpose  would  it  serve?"  he  said  in 
tones  he  struggled  to  make  firm. 

"She  can't  bear  it,  Mr.  Heriot — Sir  Heriot,  I 
should  say;  I  was  forgetting,  I'm  sure  I  beg  your 
pardon!  She  'implores  you  humbly  to  let  her 
speak  to  you' ;  I  was  to  use  those  words.  Won't 
you  consent?  She  is  ill,  she's  dying." 

"Dying?"  whispered  Heriot  by  a  physical 
effort. 

She  nodded  slowly.  "The  doctor  has  told  her. 
She  won't  be  here  long,  poor  girl.  But  whether 
she's  to  be  pitied  for  it  or  not,  it's  hard  to  say; 
I  don't  think  she'll  be  sorry  to  go.  .  .  .  My 
brother  is  gone,  Sir  Heriot." 

His  answer  was  inarticulate. 

"We  got  there  just  at  the  end.  If  we  had 
been  too  late,  she—  She  has  been  ailing  a 
long  while,  but  we  didn't  know  it  was  so  serious. 

When  she  saw  you,  it  was  awful  for  her.  I 

Oh,  what  am  I  to  tell  her?  She's  waiting  now  I" 

"Where?"  said  Heriot  hoarsely. 


190  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"Will  you  come  with  me?" 

"Show  me,"  he  said;  "show  me  where  she  is." 

He  still  heard  the  knell  of  it— "Dying!"  He 
heard  it  as  the  lonely  figure  in  the  darkness  rose: 

"Thank  you,  I  am  grateful." 

The  familiar  voice  knocked  at  his  heart. 

"Mrs.  Baines  has  told  me  you  are  ill.  I  am 
grieved  to  learn  how  ill  you  are." 

"It  doesn't  matter.  It  was  good  of  you  to 
come;  I  thought  you  would.  I — I  have  prayed 
to  speak  to  you  again!" 

"It  wasn't  much  to  ask,"  he  said;  "I — am 
human." 

He  could  see  that  she  trembled  painfully.  He 
indicated  the  chair  that  she  had  left,  and  drew 
one  closer  for  himself.  Then  for  a  minute  there 
was  silence. 

"Do  you  hate  me?"  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Should  I  have  come  to 
tell  you  so?" 

"But  you  can  never  forgive  me?" 

"Why  distress  yourself?  If  for  a  moment  I 
hesitated  to  come,  it  was  because  I  knew  it  would 
be  distressing  for  you.  Perhaps  a  refusal  would 
have  been  kinder  after  all." 

"No,  no;  I  was  sure  you  wouldn't  refuse.  She 
doubted;  but  I  was  sure.  I  said  you'd  come 
when  you  heard  about  me." 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  191 

"Is  it  so  serious?  What  is  it?  Tell  me;  I 
know  nothing." 

"It's  my  lungs:  they  were  never  very  strong, 
you  remember.  The  doctor  told  me  in  Duluth: 
'Perhaps  a  year,'  if  I  am  Very  careful.'  I'm 
not  very  careful — it'll  soon  be  all  over.  Don't 
look  like  that!  Why  should  you  care?  I  don't 
care — I  don't  want  to  live  a  bit.  Only—  —Do 
you  think,  if — if  there's  anything  afterwards, 
that  a  woman  who's  gone  wrong  like  me  will  be 
punished?" 

"For  God's  sake,"  he  said,  "don't  talk  so!" 

"But  do  you?  It  makes  one  think  of  these 
things  when  one  knows  one  has  only  a  very  little 
time  to  live.  You  can't  forgive  me — you  said  so." 

"I  do,"  he  said;  "I  forgive  you  freely.  If 
I  could  undo  your  wretchedness  by  giving  my 
life  for  you,  I'd  give  it.  You  don't  know  how 
I  loved  you — what  it  meant  to  me  to  find  you 
gone!  Ah,  Mamie,  how  could  you  do  it?" 

The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  as  she  lifted  her 
white  face  to  him. 

"I'm  ashamed!"  she  moaned.  "What  can  I 
say?" 

"Why?"  said  Heriot,  at  the  end  of  a  tense 
pause.  "Why?  Did  you  care  for  him  so  much? 
If  he  had  lived  and  married  you,  would  you  be 
happy?" 


192  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"Happy!"  she  echoed,  with  something  be- 
tween a  laugh  and  a  sob. 

"Tell  me.  I  hoped  you'd  be  happy.  That's 
true.  I  never  wanted  you  to  suffer  for  what 
you'd  done.  I  suffered  enough  for  both." 

"I  don't  think  I  should  have  married  him.  I 
don't  know;  I  don't  think  so.  I  knew  I'd  made 
a  mistake  before — oh,  in  the  first  month !  If  you 
haven't  hated  me,  I  have  hated  myself." 

"And  since?    You've  been  with  her?" 

"Ever  since.  My  poor  father  wanted  me  to 
go  home.  I  wish  I  had!  You  know  I've  lost 
him — she  told  you  that?  He  wanted  me  to  go 
home,  but  I  couldn't — where  everybody  knew! 
You  understand?  And  then  she  moved  to 
Baiham,  and  we  never  left  it  till  two  months 
ago,  when  the  cable  came.  We  were  in  time  to 
see  him  die.  My  poor  father!" 

He  touched  her  hand,  and  her  fingers  closed 
on  it. 

"You  oughtn't  to  be  up  here  at  night,"  he  said 
huskily,  looking  at  her  with  blinded  eyes. 
"Didn't  the  man  tell  you  that  the  night  air  was 
bad?  And  that  flimsy  wrap — it's  no  use  so! 
Draw  it  across  your  mouth." 

"What's  the  difference?— there,  then!  Shall 
you — will  you  speak  to  me  again  after  this  eve- 
ning, or  is  this  the  last  talk  we  shall  have?  I 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  193 

had  so  much  to  say  to  you,  but  I  don't  seem  able 
to  find  it  now  you're  here.  ...  If  you  believe 
that  I  ask  your  pardon  on  my  knees,  I  suppose, 
after  all,  that  that's  everything.  If  ever  a  man 
deserved  a  good  wife  it  was  you ;  I  realise  it  more 
clearly  than  I  did  while  we  were  together — 
though  I  think  I  knew  it  then.  .  .  .  You  never 
married  again?" 

"No,"  he  answered;  "no,  I  haven't  married." 
"But  you  will,  perhaps?    Why  haven't  you?" 
"I'm  too  old,  and — I  cared  too  much  for  you." 
The  tears  were  running  down  her  face  now; 
she  loosed  his  hand  to  wipe  them  away. 

"Don't  say  I've  ruined  your  life,"  she  pleaded; 
"don't  say  that!  My  own — yes;  my  own — it 
served  me  right !  but  I've  tried  so  hard  to  believe 
that  you  had  got  over  it.  When  I  read  of  your 
election,  and  then  that  you  were  made  Solicitor- 
General,  I  was  glad,  ever  so  glad.  I  thought, 
'He's  successful;  he  has  his  career.'  I've  always 
wanted  to  believe  that  your  work  was  enough — 
that  you  had  forgotten.  It  wasn't  so?" 

"No,  it  wasn't  so.  I  did  my  best  to  forget 
you,  but  I  couldn't." 

"Aunt  Lydia  said  you  weren't  cut  up  at  all 
when  she  saw  you.  You  deceived  her  very  well. 
*A  worthless  woman,'  you  called  me;  I  'wasn't 
any  loss!'  It  was  quite  true;  but  I  knew  you 


194.  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

couldn't  feel  like  that — not  so  soon.  'Worth- 
less'! I've  heard  it  every  day  since  she  told 
me.  ...  I  meant  to  do  my  duty  when  I  married 

you,   George;   if   I    could   have   foreseen 

She  broke  off,  coughing.  "If  I  could  have  fore- 
seen what  the  end  would  be,  I'd  have  killed 
myself  rather  than  become  your  wife.  I  was 
always  grateful  to  you;  you  were  always  good 
to  me — and  I  only  brought  you  shame." 

"Not  'only,'"  he  said;  "you  gave  me  hap- 
piness first,  Mamie — the  greatest  happiness  I've 
known.  I  loved  you,  and  you  came  to  me.  You 
never  understood  how  much  I  did  love  you — I 
think  that  was  the  trouble." 

"  'There's  a  word  that  says  it  all:  I  worship 
you'!  do  you  remember  saying  that?  You  said 
it  in  the  train  when  you  first  proposed  to  me. 
I  refused  you  then — why  did  I  ever  give  way! 
.  .  .  How  different  everything  would  be  now! 
You  'worshipped'  me,  and  I " 

Her  voice  trailed  off,  and  once  more  only  the 
pounding  of  the  engine  broke  the  stillness  on 
the  deck.  The  ocean  swelled  darkly  under  a 
starless  sky,  and  he  sat  beside  her  staring  into 
space.  In  the  steerage  someone  played  "Robin 
Adair"  on  a  fiddle.  A  drizzle  began  to  fall,  to 
blow  in  upon  them.  Heriot  became  conscious 
of  it  with  a  start. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  195 

"You  must  go  below,"  he  said;  "it's  raining." 

She  rose  obediently,  shivering  a  little,  and 
drawing  the  white  scarf  more  closely  about  her 
neck. 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  standing  there  with 
wide  eyes. 

He  put  out  his  hand,  and  her  clasp  ran 
through  his  blood  again. 

"Good-night,"  he  repeated  gently.  "Sleep 
well." 

Was  it  real?  Was  he  awake?  He  looked 
after  her  as  she  turned  away — looked  long  after 
she  had  disappeared.  The  fiddle  in  the  steerage 
was  still  scraping  "Robin  Adair";  the  black 
stretch  of  deck  was  desolate.  A  violent  impulse 
seized  him  to  overtake  her,  to  snatch  her  back, 
to  hold  her  in  his  arms  for  once,  with  words  and 
caresses  of  consolation.  "Dying" !  He  wondered 
if  Davos,  Algiers,  the  Cape,  anything  and  every- 
thing procurable  by  money,  could  prolong  her 
life.  Then  he  remembered  that  she  did  not  wish 
to  live.  But  that  was  horrible!  She  should 
consult  a  specialist  in  town,  and  follow  his  ad- 
vice; he  would  make  her  promise  it.  With  the 
gradual  defervescence  of  his  mood,  he  wondered 
if  she  was  properly  provided  for,  and  he  resolved 
to  question  Mrs.  Baines  on  the  point.  He  would 
elicit  the  information  the  following  day,  and 


196  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

something  could  be  arranged,  if  necessary — if 
not  with  Mamie's  knowledge,  then  without  it. 

The  morning  was  bright  and  Mamie  was  in 
her  chair  when  he  came  up  from  the  saloon  after 
breakfast.  As  he  approached,  she  watched  him 
expectantly,  and  it  was  impossible  to  pass  with- 
out a  greeting.  It  was  impossible,  when  the 
greeting  had  been  exchanged,  not  to  remain  with 
her  for  a  few  minutes. 

"How  are  you  feeling?"  he  asked;  "any 
better?" 

"I  never  feel  very  bad;  I'm  just  the  same 
to-day  as  yesterday,  thank  you."  The  "thank 
you"  was  something  more  than  a  formula,  and 
he  felt  it.  It  hurt  him  to  hear  the  gratitude  in 
her  tone,  natural  as  it  might  be. 

"I  want  you  to  go  to  a  good  physician  when 
you  arrive,"  he  said,  "say,  to  Drummond;  and 
to  do  just  as  he  tells  you.  You  must  do  that; 
it  is  a  duty  you  owe  to  yourself." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "What  for? 
That  I  may  last  two  years,  perhaps,  instead  of 
one?  It  is  kind  of  you  to  care,  but  I'm  quite 
satisfied  as  things  are.  Don't  bother  about  me." 

"You  will  have  to  go!"  he  insisted.  "Before 
we  land  I  shall  speak  to  your  aunt  about  it." 

He  had  paused  by  her  seat  with  the  intention 
of  resuming  his  saunter  as  soon  as  civility  per- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  197 

mitted,  but  her  presence  was  subversive  of  the 
intention.  He  sat  down  beside  her  as  he  had 
done  the  previous  evening.  But  now  it  was  in- 
evitable that  they  should  speak  of  other  subjects 
than  infidelity  and  death.  The  sky  was  blue, 
and  the  white  deck  glistened  in  the  sunshine. 
The  sea  before  them  tumbled  cheerfully,  and  to 
right  and  left  were  groups  of  passengers,  laugh- 
ing, flirting,  doing  fancy-work,  or  reading  novels. 

"You  haven't  told  me  how  it  was  you  came 
to  the  States?"  she  said  presently;  "were  you 
in  New  York  all  the  time?" 

Heriot  did  not  answer,  and  she  waited  in 
surprise. 

"I'll  tell  you,  if  you  wish,"  he  said  hastily, 
"I  came  out  half  meaning  to  marry." 

"Oh!"  she  said,  as  if  he  had  struck  her. 

"I  thought  I  might  be  happier  married.  The 
lady  and  her  mother  were  going  to  New  York 
and  I  travelled  with  them.  I — I  was  mistaken 
in  myself." 

They  were  not  looking  at  each  other  any 
longer,  and  her  voice  trembled  a  little  as  she 
replied : 

"You  weren't  fond  enough  of  her?" 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  shall  never  marry  again; 
I  told  you  so  last  night." 

After  a  long  pause,  she  said: 


198  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"Was  she  pretty?  .  .  .  Prettier  than  I  used 
to  be?" 

"She  was  handsome,  I  think.  Not  like  you 
at  all.  Why  talk  about  it?  ...  I'm  glad  I 
came,  though,  or  I  shouldn't  have  seen  you.  I 
shall  always  be  glad  to  have  seen  you  again. 
Remember  that,  after  we  part.  For  me,  at  least, 
it  will  never  be  so  bitter  since  we've  met  and  I've 
heard  you  say  you're  sorry." 

"God  bless  you,"  she  murmured  almost  in- 
audibly. 

He  left  her  after  half  an  hour,  but  drifted 
towards  her  again  in  the  afternoon.  Insensibly 
they  lost  by  degrees  much  of  their  constraint  in 
talking  together.  She  told  him  of  her  father's 
illness,  of  her  own  life  in  Balham;  Heriot  gave 
her  some  details  of  his  appointment,  explaining 
that  it  was  the  duty  of  an  Attorney- General 
and  Solicitor-General  to  reply  to  questions  of 
law  in  the  House,  to  advise  the  Government, 
and  conduct  its  cases,  and  the  rest  of  it.  By 
Wednesday  night  it  was  difficult  to  him  to  realise 
that  their  first  interview  had  occurred  only  forty- 
eight  hours  ago.  It  had  become  his  habit  on  deck 
to  turn  his  steps  towards  her,  to  sip  tea  by  her 
side  in  the  saloon,  to  saunter  with  her  after 
dinner  in  the  starlight.  Even  at  last  he  felt  no 
embarrassment  as  he  moved  towards  her;  even 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  199 

at  last  she  came  to  smile  up  at  him  as  he  drew 
near.  Moments  there  could  not  fail  to  be  when 
such  a  state  of  things  seemed  marvellous  and 
unnatural — when  conversation  ceased,  and  they 
paused  oppressed  and  tongue-tied  by  a  con- 
sciousness of  the  anomaly  of  their  relations. 
Nevertheless  such  moments  were  but  hitches  in 
an  intercourse  which  grew  daily  more  indis- 
pensable to  them  both. 

How  indispensable  it  had  become  to  herself 
the  woman  perceived  as  the  end  of  the  voyage 
approached;  and  now  she  would  have  asked  no 
better  than  for  them  to  sail  on  until  she  died. 
When  she  undressed  at  night,  she  sighed, 
"Another  day  over";  when  she  woke  in  the 
morning,  eagerness  quickened  her  pulses.  On 
Saturday  they  would  arrive;  and  when  Friday 
dawned,  the  reunion  held  less  of  strangeness 
than  the  reflection  that  she  and  Heriot  would 
separate  again  directly.  To  think  that,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  they  would  say  good-bye  to 
each  other,  and  resume  their  opposite  sides  of 
an  impassable  gulf,  looked  more  unnatural  to 
her  than  the  renewed  familiarity. 

Their  pauses  were  longer  than  usual  on  Friday 
evening.  Both  were  remembering  that  it  was 
the  last.  Heriot  had  ascertained  that  Cheriton 
had  been  able  to  leave  her  but  little;  and  the 


200  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

notion  of  providing  her  with  the  means  to  winter 
in  some  favourable  climate  was  hot  in  his  mind. 

"It  is  understood,"  he  said  abruptly,  ''that  you 
go  to  Drummond  and  do  exactly  as  he  orders? 
You'll  not  be  so  mad  as  to  refuse  at  the  last 
moment?" 

"All  right!"  she  answered  apathetically,  "I'll 
go.  Shall  I — will  you  care  to  hear  what  he 
says?" 

"Your  aunt  has  promised  to  write  to  me.  By 
the  way,  there's  something  I  want  to  say  to- 
night. If  what  he  advises  is  expensive,  you  must 
let  me  make  it  possible  for  you.  I  claim  that 
as  my  right.  I  intended  arranging  it  with  Mrs. 
Baines,  but  she  tells  me  you — you'd  be  bound  to 
know  where  the  money  came  from.  He'll  prob- 
ably tell  you  to  live  abroad." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  after  a  slight  start, 
"I  could  not  take  your  money.  It  is  very  good  of 
you,  but  I  would  rather  you  didn't  speak  of  it. 
If  you  talked  for  ever,  I  wouldn't  consent." 

"Mamie- 

"The  very  offer  turns  me  cold.    Please  don't!" 

"You're  cruel,"  he  said.  "You're  refusing  to 
let  me  prolong  your  life.  Have  I  deserved  that 
from  you?" 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  in  a  tortured  voice,  "for  God's 
sake  don't  press  me!  Leave  me  something — I 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  201 

won't  say  'self-respect,'  but  a  vestige,  a  grain  of 
proper  pride.  Think  what  my  feelings  would 
be,  living  on  money  from  you — it  wouldn't  pro- 
long my  life,  George;  it  would  kill  me  sooner. 
You've  been  generous  and  merciful  to  me;  be 
merciful  to  me  still  and  talk  of  something  else." 

"You  are  asking  me  to  stand  by  and  see  you 
die.  I  have  feelings,  too,  Mamie.  I  can't  do  it!" 

"I'm  dying,"  she  said;  "if  it  happens  a  little 
sooner,  or  a  little  later,  does  it  matter  very  much  ? 
If  you  want  to  be  very  kind  to  me,  to — to 
brighten  the  time  that  remains  to  me  as  much  as 
you  can,  tell  me  that  if  I  send  to  you  when— 
when  it's  a  question  of  days,  you'll  come  to  the 
place  and  see  me  again.  I'd  bless  you  for  that! 
I've  been  afraid  to  ask  you  till  now ;  but  it  would 
mean  more  to  me  than  anything  else  you  could 
do.  Would  you,  if  I  sent?" 

"Why,"  said  Heriot  labouredly,  after  another 
pause,  "why  would  it  mean  so  much?" 

They  were  leaning  over  the  taffrail;  and  sud- 
denly her  head  was  bent,  and  she  broke  into 
convulsive  sobs  that  tore  his  breast. 

"Mamie!"  he  exclaimed.  "Mamie,  tell  me!" 
He  glanced  round  and  laid  a  trembling  touch 
on  her  hands.  "Tell  me,  dear!"  he  repeated 
hoarsely.  "Do  you  love  me,  then?" 

Her  figure   was   shaken   by  the   shuddering 


202  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

sobs.  His  touch  tightened  to  a  clasp;  he  drew 
the  hands  down  from  the  distorted  face,  drew 
the  shaken  figure  closer,  till  his  own  met  it — till 
her  bosom  was  heaving  against  his  heart. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Mamie?" 

"Yes!"  she  gasped.  And  then  for  an  instant 
only  their  eyes  spoke,  and  in  the  intensity  of 
their  eyes  each  gave  to  the  other  body  and  soul. 

"Yes,  I  love  you,"  she  panted;  "it's  my  pun- 
ishment, I  suppose,  to  love  you  too  late.  I  shall 
never  see  you  after  to-morrow,  till  I  am  dying— 
if  then — but  I  love  you.  Remember  it!  It's  no 
good  to  you,  you  won't  care,  but  remember  it, 
because  it's  my  punishment.  You  can  say, 
'When  it  was  too  late,  she  knew!  She  died  de- 
testing herself,  shrinking  at  her  own  body,  her 
own  loathsome  body  that  she  gave  to  another 
man!'  Oh" — she  beat  her  hands  hysterically 
against  his  chest — "I  hate  him,  I  hate  him! 
God  forgive  me,  he's  in  his  grave,  but  I  hate  him 
when  I  think  what's  been.  And  it  wasn't  his 
fault;  it  was  mine,  mine — my  own  degraded, 
beastly  self.  Curse  me,  throw  me  from  you! 
I'm  not  fit  to  be  standing  here;  I'm  lower  than 
the  lowest  woman  in  the  streets!" 

The  violence  of  her  emotion  maddened  him. 
He  knew  that  he  loved  her;  the  truth  was 
stripped  of  the  disguise  in  which  he  had  sought 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  203 

for  years  to  wrap  it — he  knew  that  he  had  never 
ceased  to  love  her;  and  a  temptation  to  make 
her  his  wife  again,  to  cherish  and  possess  her  as 
long  as  life  should  linger  in  her  veins,  flooded 
his  reason.  Their  gaze  grew  wider,  deeper  still; 
he  could  feel  her  quivering  from  head  to  foot. 
Another  moment,  and  he  would  have  offered  his 
honour  to  her  keeping  afresh.  Some  men  left 
the  smoking-room;  there  was  the  sharp  inter- 
ruption of  laughter — the  slam  of  the  door.  They 
both  regained  some  semblance  of  self-possession 
as  they  moved  apart. 

"I  must  go  down,"  she  said.  And  he  did  not 
beg  her  to  remain. 

It  was  their  real  farewell,  for  on  the  morrow 
they  could  merely  exchange  a  few  words  amid 
the  bustle  of  arrival.  Liverpool  was  reached 
early  in  the  morning,  and  when  he  saw  her,  she 
wore  a  hat  and  veil  and  was  already  prepared  to 
go  ashore.  In  the  glare  of  the  sunshine  the  veil 
could  not  conceal  that  her  eyes  were  red  with 
weeping,  however,  and  he  divined  that  she  had 
passed  a  sleepless  night.  To  Mrs.  Baines  he 
privately  repeated  his  injunctions  with  regard  to 
the  physician,  for  he  was  determined  to  have  his 
way;  and  the  widow  assured  him  that  she  would 
write  to  Morson  Drummond  for  an  appointment 
without  loss  of  time.  The  delays  and  shouts 


204.  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

came  to  an  end  while  he  was  speaking  to  her;  and 
the  gangway  was  lowered,  and  Mamie  moved 
forward  to  her  side.  He  saw  them  again  in  the 
custom-house,  but  for  a  minute  only,  and  from 
a  distance.  Evidently  they  got  through  without 
trouble,  for  when  he  looked  across  again,  they 
had  gone. 

As  he  saw  that  they  had  gone,  a  sensation  of 
blankness  fell  upon  Heriot's  mind,  where  he 
stood  waiting  among  the  scattered  luggage.  His 
life  felt  newly  empty  and  the  day  all  at  once 
seemed  cold  and  dark. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  truth  was  stripped  of  the  disguise  in 
which  he  had  sought  to  wrap  it;  he  knew  that 
he  had  never  ceased  to  love  her.  As  he  had 
known  it  while  she  sobbed  beside  him  on  the 
boat,  so  he  knew  it  when  the  Bar  claimed  him 
again  and  he  wrestled  with  temptation  amid  his 
work.  He  might  re-marry  her!  He  could  not 
drive  this  irruptive  idea  from  his  mind.  It 
lurked  there,  impelled  attention,  dozed,  woke, 
and  throbbed  in  his  consciousness  persistently. 
Were  he  but  weak  enough  to  make  the  choice, 
the  woman  that  he  loved  might  belong  to  him 
once  more. 

Were  he  but  weak  enough!  There  were 
minutes  in  which  he  was  very  near  to  it,  minutes 
in  which  the  dishonour,  if  dishonour  it  were, 
looked  as  nothing  to  him  compared  with  the  joy 
of  having  her  for  his  wife  again.  Yet  were  he 
but  "weak"  enough?  Would  it  indeed  be  weak- 
ness— would  it  not  rather  be  strength,  the  cour- 
age of  his  convictions  ?  The  longing  illumined  his 
vision,  and  he  asked  himself  on  what  his  doubt 

207 


208  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

and  hesitation  was  based.  She  had  sinned;  but 
he  had  pardoned  her  sin,  not  merely  in  words, 
but  in  his  heart.  And  she  was  very  dear  to  him ; 
and  she  had  repented.  Then  why  should  it  be 
impossible?  What  after  all  had  they  done  to 
her,  what  change  in  the  beloved  identity  had  they 
wrought,  those  months  that  were  past?  He  was 
aware  that  it  was  the  physical  side  that  repelled 
him — there  had  been  another  man.  Yet  if  she 
had  been  a  widow  when  he  met  her  first,  there 
would  have  been  another  man,  and  it  would  have 
mattered  nothing.  Did  this  especial  sin  make 
of  a  woman  somebody  else?  Did  it  give  to  her 
another  face,  another  form,  another  brain?  Did 
unfaithfulness  transform  her  personality?  The 
only  difference  was  the  knowledge  of  what  had 
happened — the  woman  herself  was  the  same! 
But  he  would  not  vindicate  his  right  to  love  her 
— he  loved  her,  that  was  enough.  In  its  sim- 
plicity, the  question  was  whether  he  would  do 
better  to  condone  her  guilt  and  know  happiness, 
or  to  preserve  his  dignity  and  suffer.  He  could 
not  blink  the  question ;  it  confronted  him  nakedly 
when  a  week  had  worn  by.  Without  her  he  was 
lonely  and  wretched;  with  her,  while  she  lived, 
he  was  confident  that  his  joy  would  be  supreme. 
The  step  that  he  considered  was,  if  anyone 
pleased,  revolting;  but  if  it  led  to  his  content- 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  209 

ment,  perhaps  to  be  "revolting"  might  be  the 
height  of  wisdom.  He  must  sacrifice  his  pride, 
or  his  peace!  And  at  last,  quite  deliberately, 
without  misgiving  or  a  backward  glance,  Heriot 
determined  to  gain  peace. 

A  few  days  after  the  arrival,  Mrs.  Baines  had 
written  to  inform  him  that  the  physician  was 
out  of  town,  but  now  a  line  came  to  say  that  an 
appointment  had  been  made  for  "Monday"  and 
that  she  would  communicate  Dr.  Drummond's 
pronouncement  immediately  they  reached  home 
after  the  interview.  It  was  on  Monday  morning 
that  Heriot  received  the  note,  and  he  resolved 
to  go  to  Mamie  the  same  evening. 

The  thought  of  the  amazement  that  his  ap- 
pearance would  cause  her  excited  him  wildly  as 
he  drove  to  Victoria.  He  could  foresee  the 
wonder  in  her  eyes  as  he  entered,  the  incredulity 
on  her  features  as  she  heard  what  he  was  there 
to  say;  and  the  profoundest  satisfaction  per- 
vaded him  that  he  had  resolved  to  say  it.  The 
comments  that  his  world  would  make  had  no 
longer  any  place  in  his  meditations ;  a  fico  for  the 
world  that  would  debar  him  from  delight  and 
censure  what  it  could  not  understand!  He  had 
suffered  long  enough;  his  only  regret  was  for 
the  years  which  had  been  lost  before  he  grasped 
the  vivid  truth  that,  innocent  or  guilty,  the 


210  ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

woman  who  conferred  happiness  was  the  woman 
to  be  desired. 

A  criticism  of  his  brother's  recurred  to  him: 
"You  hadn't  a  single  taste  in  common!"  He 
had  not  disputed  it  at  the  time;  he  was  not  cer- 
tain that  he  could  deny  it  now.  But  there  was 
no  need  to  consider  whether  their  views  were 
kindred  or  opposed,  whether  she  was  defiled  or 
stainless,  when  she  was  the  woman  whose  magic 
could  transfigure  his  existence.  He  was  con- 
scious that  this  marriage  to  be  approved  by  his 
judgment,  and  condemned  by  Society,  would  be 
a  sweeter  and  holier  union  than  their  first,  to 
which  she  had  brought  purity,  and  indifference. 
As  the  cab  sped  down  Victoria  Street,  his  excite- 
ment increased,  and  in  imagination  he  already 
clasped  her  and  felt  the  warmth  of  her  cheek 
against  his  face. 

The  hansom  slackened,  jerked  to  a  standstill; 
and  he  leapt  out  and  hurried  to  the  booking- 
office.  A  train  was  at  the  point  of  starting.  The 
sentiment  of  the  bygone  was  quick  in  him  as  he 
found  that  he  must  pass  through  a  yellow  barrier 
on  to  the  same  platform  to  which  he  used  to 
hasten  when  he  went  to  see  her  in  Lavender 
Street,  Wandsworth.  He  had  never  trodden  it 
since.  A  thousand  associations,  sad  but  delicious, 
were  revived  as  he  took  his  seat,  and  the  guard, 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  211 

whose  countenance  seemed  familiar,  sauntered 
with  a  green  flag  and  a  lantern  past  the  window. 
Victoria  slipped  back.  It  had  been  in  one  of 
these  compartments — perhaps  in  this  one — that 
he  had  first  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  How  wet 
her  cape  had  been  when  he  touched  it !  A  porter 
sang  out,  "Grosvenor  Road,"  and  at  the  sound 
of  it  Heriot  marvelled  at  having  forgotten  that 
they  were  about  to  stop  there.  Yes,  "Grosvenor 
Road,"  and  then — what  next?  He  could  not  re- 
member. But  memory  knocked  with  a  louder 
pang  as  each  of  the  places  on  the  line  was 
reached.  When  "Wandsworth  Common"  was 
cried,  he  glanced  at  the  dimly-lighted  station 
while  in  fancy  he  threaded  his  way  to  the  shabby 
villa  that  had  been  her  home.  He  thought  that 
he  could  find  it  blindfold. 

After  this  the  line  was  quite  strange  to  him; 
and  now  the  impatience  of  his  mood  had  no 
admixture  and  he  trembled  with  eagerness  to 
gain  his  destination. 

"Balham!"  was  bawled  two  minutes  later;  and 
among  a  stream  of  clerks  and  nondescripts,  he 
descended  a  flight  of  steps  and  emerged  into  a 
narrow  street.  No  cab  was  visible,  and,  having 
obtained  directions,  he  set  forth  for  Rosalie  Road 
afoot. 

A  glimpse  he  had  of  cheap  commerce,  of  the 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

flare  of  gas-jets  on  oranges,  and  eggs,  and  fifth- 
rate  millinery;  and  then  the  shops  and  the  masses 
were  left  behind,  and  he  was  in  obscurity.  The 
sound  of  footsteps  occurred  but  seldom  here,  and 
he  wandered  in  a  maze  of  little  houses  for  nearly 
half  an  hour  before  a  welcome  postman  earned 
a  shilling. 

Rosalie  Road  began  in  darkness,  and  ended  in 
a  brickfield.  He  identified  Number  44  by  the 
aid  of  a  vesta,  and  pulled  the  bell.  Impatience 
was  mastering  him  when  he  discerned,  through 
the  panes,  a  figure  advancing  along  the  passage. 

His  voice  was  strange  in  his  ears,  as  he  in- 
quired if  Mamie  was  in. 

"Yessir;  she's  in  the  drorin'-room.  'Oo  shall 
I  say?" 

"Sir  George  Heriot.  Is  Mrs.  Baines  at 
home?" 

His  title  rendered  the  little  maid  incapable 
of  an  immediate  response. 

"Missis  is  out  of  a  herrand,  sir,"  she  stam- 
mered; "she  won't  be  long." 

"When  she  comes  in,  tell  her  that  I'm  talk- 
ing privately  to  her  niece.  'Privately';  don't 
forget!" 

She  turned  the  handle,  and  Heriot  followed 
her  into  the  room.  Vaguely  he  heard  her 
announce  him;  he  saw  the  room  as  in  a  mist. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW  213 

Momentarily  all  that  was  clear  was  Mamie's 
face,  white  and  wondering  in  the  lamplight.  She 
stood  where  she  had  been  standing  at  his  en- 
trance, looking  at  him;  he  had  the  impression  of 
many  seconds  passing  while  she  only  looked; 
many  seconds  seemed  to  go  by  before  her  colour 
fluttered  back  and  she  said,  "You?" 

"Yes,  it's  I.  Won't  you  say  you're  glad  to 
see  me?" 

"Aunt  Lydia  has  written  you,"  she  said,  still 
gazing  at  him  as  if  she  doubted  his  reality.  "Her 
letter  has  gone." 

"I've  come  to  hear  what  Dr.  Drummond 
says." 

She  motioned  him  to  a  chair,  and  drooped 
weakly  on  to  the  shiny  couch. 

"I  am  not  going  to  die,"  she  muttered.  "Your 
sympathy  has  been  thrown  away — I'm  a  fraud." 

In  the  breathless  pause  he  felt  deafened  by 
the  thudding  of  his  heart. 

"He  has  given  you  hope?" 

"He  said,  'Bosh!'  I  told  him  what  the  doctor 
told  me  in  Duluth.  He  said,  'Bosh !'  One  lung 
isn't  quite  sound,  that's  all;  I  may  live  to  be 
eighty." 

"O  dear  God!"  said  Heriot  slowly,  "I  thank 
You!" 

She  gave  a  short  laugh,  harsh  and  bitter. 


ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

"I  always  posed.  My  last  pose  was  as  a  dying 
woman!" 

"Mamie,"  he  said  firmly — he  went  across  to 
her  and  sat  down  by  her  side — "Mamie,  I  love 
you.  I  want  you  to  come  back  to  me,  my 
darling.  My  life's  no  good  without  you,  and  I 
want  you  for  my  wife  again.  Will  you  come?" 

He  heard  her  catch  her  breath;  she  could  not 
speak.  He  took  her  hands,  and  drew  her  to  him. 
Their  lips  clung  together,  and  presently  he  felt 
tears  on  his  cheek. 

Then  she  released  herself  with  a  gesture  of 
negation. 

"You  are  mad!"  she  said.  "And  I  should  be 
madder  to  accept  the  sacrifice!" 

For  this  he  was  prepared. 

"I  am  ver^  sane,"  he  answered.  "Dearest, 
when  you  understand,  you  will  see  that  it  is  the 
only  reparation  you  can  make  me.  Listen!" 


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